The Laughing Wall
by Reyavie
Summary: She's bored, he's freaked out. She's an airhead, he's confused. A what if Duncan hadn't been near the Tower and the mage got in trouble.
1. She is jailed

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

**Author's note: **this is basically a spin-off of **Denerim and Rainesfere **though it can be read independently. Just a random idea which I may or not continue, not so sure. It just needed to be written down.

**Premise:** f!Amell helped Jowan but Duncan was not present to conscript her. This means she was _arrested_ while Lily was sent to Aeonar. Jowan escaped, Uldred has yet to rebel and the Tower is in relative peace. Artwork by the very talented ChampiontheWonderSnail.

**Word count:** 1.767.

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The mages of the Tower had long stopped counting the days after their arrival. The Tower is their home and prison all in one, their protection and doom at the same time. They do what they can, try to live as well as possible. Any other option has been taken away far before by the Chantry's hands.

The continuous scratches drawn on the cell's walls show that the woman inside does, indeed, count the days until she is able to leave. How many days, how many hours have passed since she has been thrown inside, a way like any other to pass the time. Could she practice again soon, to be in class, to take an apprentice? While she is dreaming, why not join some place as a healer? And a _flying dragon_. Stupid wishes but all she has to do inside the square meter of prison cell she is allowed.

All in all, she has never been so bored in her entire life.

At first rest had been nice. Her head had been buzzing, screeching painfully with every remembrance of the last events. Jowan and Lily, the repository and the blood covering her from head to toe. The first days, Diana had been more than happy to curse the two idiots with all the insults of her particularly small inventory. She was not a violent person. She wasn't, really. But then again, maybe that has changed because all the punishments that she has devised for both fools – o_r maybe just Jowan, Lily had been punished already_ – had turned strangely bloody and oddly satisfying. Her imagination only grew so far before that became repetive.

It is _deadly_ boring. Not that it is a bad thing that she has been forgotten since Aeonar isn't really on her top vacation spots but really, she confesses to the mouser which persists in coming to her for food, there is just nothing to do. Stare, look, play with the edges of her robe and the wall isn't giving her anything new after fifty days. Reread the Chant of Light can only be interesting for so long. Even when adding notes, pushing comments into every margin and, generally, making a blasphemer out of herself.

The fiftieth day marks a change.

She has reached an all-time new low if Cullen's entrance is something to be amazed about. If it brings ideas about how Irving has just gone mad or Gregoir who should have known better than leaving her with the guy who said he would have killed her. _But nothing personal, I wouldn't like killing you, your neck was just a great target and my hand was itching_.

Maker help her, she is going mad.

The wall refuses to answer her. _Bitch_.

"Hello, Cullen!"

He shakes as if she has just hit him with lightning. On a regular normal every day of her life, she would never do this. Cullen is harder to speak to than anyone else in that Tower and, in that list, she is including both the Knight Commander and the dragolings. But, closed bars, dark stone all around her and the only thing she can do is try.

"Ah." Bright start of conversation, we have progress. The templar's hands shake momentarily, her food takes a precariously dangerous stumble into the abyss and his mouth trembles. _Yes. Fear me, Templars everywhere._ And Jowan too because she's going to kill him for making her to this out of sheer boredom. "I am not supposed to talk to you."

Gregoir needs to die. Slowly, painfully and with her staff jammed somewhere.

"I'm not going to attack you or anything," she complains – _not whines, she doesn't whine. Jowan whines for her, it's much better for her reputation_. "I'm just." She waves frenetically to the rest of the cell. "Bored! Nothing to do. I've been here for _ages_ and no one talks to me! I'm going to end up crazy if this keeps going and what would just be a _bad thing_. You don't want it to happen. I might bite my way through the bars. Or drool myself into drowning." Or turn, most likely, into an abomination. A little dry part of her, which seems to have been cultured during those months, pipes in on and on about how that might be a welcomed change.

But, by the love of the Maker, if he left, she will be alone again. If she is alone, dear Lord, she will just start banging her head against a wall because nothing, nothing can be more painful than what she is experiencing. So _please, please, please_, she asks repeatedly, _don't leave, wow, why are you inching towards the door, you dumbass, don't you_.

He stops, half an inch out and then returns. Slowly, slowly because she's a big bad abomination and just that close to jump him through bars of her _cell_.

This is why she doesn't like Templars. Their common sense is stuffed in some garbage pile with their sense of humor, libido and capacity to think for themselves. _No offence meant, of course. _Though only because he is her only salvation, her only peak of interest inside the three stone walls and metal bars – _twenty seven bars_, she counted, _three hundred, sixty-two stone slabs_.

"W-What do you want?"

_Distractions! He'll do._

Diana pushes herself just a little bit closer, enough for him not bolt right through the door. That'd bring everyone's attention back to her. Another _bad bad thing_. Distractions, that's all she wants, the tiniest bit of human contact because that is what kept her going, what made her smile day after day in the tower. How she can explain this to him? He doesn't know her, not really. He doesn't understand that she might love the Tower but she loves the others more, the way smiles can make stone seem less tough, less harsh, less of a prison than what it is.

"Just talk. You know," she shrugs helplessly, hoping even Templars have some sort of conversation skills. "Something new?"

Anything about this man will be new.

Cullen looks at her for a long time – _not uncomfortable, not at all, wow, is this the only thing you're able to do?_ – almost as if it is the first time he sees her, she thinks. Maybe she should forget about this whole idea. Maybe that is a good idea. He doesn't speak, after all. Just measures her, almost like Gregoir would do, trying to read her every thought, her every intention and that is just _plain creepy, what in the world?_

"Do you regret it?"

Her mind bashes itself almost literally into a wall, surprise making her slide too close to the metal bars.

She was wrong. This isn't Cullen, he isn't stuttering. Perhaps he is, in fact, a demon bent on conquering her body through an inane quiz. And her head hurts pretty bad, the Maker-forsaken _bastard_.

"What? Regret what?" Hitting the bars? Yes. Definitely yes, Maker damnit.

The man closes the distance between them yet again, eyes somewhere fixed on the floor, brow furrowed like the effort to speak is too painful for words.

"Helping him out. To get the. The Phylactery," he says, almost bluntly.

Of all the questions, of all the subjects. Diana is the one who stares now, wondering just why the conversation, just why this question of all things. Gregoir would have asked this – _just before carting her off to Aeonar. _So would Irving, with that disappointed gaze which everyone would deserve one time or another. Conversation it is, so why not?

"Hm." The mage shrugs. "Nah. Not really."

"But he is a maleficar! A blood mage!" Any Templar would say this, any would before smacking her around. Run her through with its sword because she doesn't regret. Cullen says it like a child would, curious, on the border of temptation and watching someone who leaped through and seems fine with it.

"Yeah, well. He didn't kill anyone and he could have." _You bloody bastards were the ones trying to make him into a soulless husk._ "Come on, you were there." _Or was Gregoir's presence too much and it took your eyes out of commission?_ "You saw he could have killed us all and he didn't. You _saw it_. 'Sides, he's an idiot, will always be an idiot and I want to kick his posterior several times with something sharp but we grew up together." _Would you kill your own brother_?

Her comments are censored, her reasons are censored but this makes sense. To herself, finding the reasons as to why she stopped torturing her friend in her thoughts. A brother is a brother, a friend is a friend and those links run deep to her, deeper than the rules of the Tower and the Chantry.

"It's still wrong, you know."

Funny thing, _and Diana almost laughs when she notices it_, he doesn't look that convict in his words. Bar the usual Chantry drivel.

"So is being a mage and I'm not about to throw myself out of a window. Hrm. Not that I could." Cell, closed bars, walls, even that would be difficult. "You can't change everything that's wrong. You just, deal with it, you know? Do the best you can 'cause everyone else isn't perfect and you're not either. Accept everyone has some faults here and there. Who knows? You might do something incredibly wrong in a week, a month. Attack the Commander, even."

The Templar stares at her all over again and she's just that close to tell him to quit, go back to wherever Templar boys do when they're not stalking innocent little mage girls because that is just _plain creepy_ when he nods to himself. To her? To something, as if he has just reached this amazing conclusion. One which decides the whole world around them.

He tells her nothing as he leaves, damned bastard.

_She hates Templars_.

_Until the following day_.

Then, he shows by her door with a greeting, a barely whispered comment and a touch of conversation. Her food twice a day and no one else comes through the door, no one but this man who seems to have forgotten about their previous conversation or the fact that she is a prisoner. Someone who acted against his kind.

_And a shy, very shy smile on his lips._

Diana finds she can almost like this Templar, Chantry obsessed or not.

_And she's sure, very sure that the wall laughs at her._


	2. He is shocked

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

**Author's note: **a bit confusing but this seems to have becomed my work-when-in-writer's-block text. Feedback, please.

**In this chapter: **he trusts because he has no else to trust.

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**002.**

The Tower had felt wrong. It hadn't been something obvious. There had been even the high probability of it being only his mind playing around with him. It was possible. It had happened before, all too frequently for someone who had spent his entire time indoors in a place constantly circular, always closed. But, after the five years inside those halls, Cullen had reached a few conclusions about his day to day routine. Mages and more mages, the First Enchanter and his usual greeting whenever he found him, even in the oddest place, the oddest position, the Knight Commander right above his right shoulder at least thrice a day. _Always_. The breakfast between Templars alone, the high shelves in the library drawing his attention. _Always_.

But the Tower feels wrong and he has no idea why.

The mages were being themselves and the Fade seemed right – or he had thought so, it's not like a Templar can actually feel something as complex. The Senior Enchanters were up and about, some of them in some reunion and the Templars, well, being themselves. Guarding. There was really no reason for his distress and constant alarm. He hadn't eaten the whole day, had barely slept during the day and his heart was disquiet, ridiculous as that sounded. It could be the idea of the Blight coming on their way. The news of the King's death were hard and blunt, after all. Some part of him might be actually bothered for the man he hadn't known and never will.

"_So you're just convinced something is wrong because of a feeling?"_

The cell had not changed. The mage inside it was the same, dirty, rugged and annoying as always, Cullen doesn't even understand why he had bothered mentioning the matter to her. After all, she's an idiot. And constantly laughing at him. A laughing idiot.

"_Ah, you're funny," she adds, rubbing tears and dirt all over her face. "In this maniac kind of sense which really doesn't make any kind of sense. I thought you didn't have everything right up there when you kept staring at us all the time. This totally beats my expectations though. 'Feelings'?"_

_He can feel the quotations all over the word._

A laughing idiot who had called him a pervert and mocked him all at once. Nowadays, the Templar can clearly say he has no idea why he ever liked her – _enjoyed looking at her, not liked her. Not like like_. This blonde nonsense, filled with ridiculous thoughts and lack of coherence isn't likeable. But she listens and asks for conversation and to her, he speaks these things. Templars are not given to this kind of worries. Cullen knows, and if he dared mention his suspicions about the Tower, there was a high probability of the Commander offer him a rather long and permanent vacation. Templars break, just like the mages they guard.

"_You live in a freaking magical Tower filled to the brink with little magy-robed-people. There's your bad feeling."_

But still, the feeling persists. Up and down the stairs, watching the wary people. Fear of the war, fear of unknown, fear of him and his sword. But something else, something different, how weird is that? And while she mocks – and she does, makes sure he hears all of it – he knows she feels something similar, blamed on her long imprisonment. A frown when he had turned away, the quiet despair when he walks out, that's how he knows these things. She's harrowed, she's a mage and she's supposed to have knowledge. No matter how many veils she keeps over her eyes.

"_Hey, Commander." _

_He raises his head to tell her he's not, she's wrong, don't call him that but her stare stops him. It seems almost serious, Maker help him, almost because her lips are just that close to turn. _

"_Stop giving yourself more issues than those you already have," she says clearly, tugging on a rather slimy strand of hair. "Go to Gregoir, tell him you have shivers and whatever oddish kind of thing you're feeling and get it out of your mind. And while you're there, ask him for a bath for me, Maker damnit! I look like something dragonlings spat out. Just look at my hair!"_

He didn't and should have. Not look at her hair, he couldn't care less about that, he thinks wryly, but talk to Gregoir. For all her stupidity, Diana had had a decent idea. When he realizes this, it is already too late.

It starts with silence and, in a place where there's no such thing, that is more obvious than a glaring siren. Fire and thunder follow and, soon enough, the sound of smiting. It can be nothing else, his mind supplies as he pushes himself off the bed. It does little against dragonlings and even less against someone like him, which means the target is a mage. More than one, clashes of blades close and coming closer. The same feeling which had oppressed Cullen the whole day returns and grows, replacing coherent thought.

Something's wrong, he knows, sweaty hands trying to buckle his armor in much less than the needed time, something's incredibly wrong. Another Templar stands just outside his room once he's done with some basic defense and he's a friend and Cullen always enjoys his company. Everything's wrong when his friend's blade is suddenly used against him, too quick, even if he is just slightly quicker. The blow is a warning and his arm suffers the consequences. Just a moment, that's all he has before forcing his way through the throng of armored shoulders, armored bodies trying to stop him. A spell hits him, blood mages, his mind adds as an afterthought. There's also blood on the walls, on the floor, making him slip when he runs down the stairs aimlessly.

"Another one!"

And then, he's a target, a moving target and no Smite can be done because since he left his room and that particular moment, all his strength has been sapped uselessly. Idiot. _You're an idiot_. What is going on? Who's attacking? Where is everyone else? He has no clue, he has some idea and the answer to the last shouldn't be dead, can't be dead. The Templars are stronger than that. Bile fills his throat, clogs his breathing and he runs, running is always better than throwing up or fear what's up the next corner.

Cullen runs without knowing exactly where he's running, sweat dripping from his brow. The library remains empty, the Senior Enchanters disappeared, a barrier locks his way once he tries to leave towards the apprentice rooms. Only the prison remains the same and there he finds himself, closing the door behind him with unsure fingers.

"I need your help," he speaks towards the space.

This is a terrible, terrible mistake. Cullen shouldn't be here, shouldn't be entertaining the sheer idea of being even close to this place and_ look_, he has already called her attention and she's actually listening. He shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't do this. But Diana comes from the corner of her little cell, looks at him with those green eyes, dirty and ragged and _sharp, _right next to the bars as if she knows exactly what's going on and how to stop it. A mage because he was there when she was harrowed and he can trust her. He can, _she is untouched_.

"Did a cat get possessed again? Because if it did, I am not helping. The damned cats get all huffy when I come near, it's bad enough when they're not being possessed. Then again, what kind of demon possesses a _cat_ of all things? Dumb bastards." Dear Maker, he cannot even understand the words she's spouting, never mind the meaning behind it. "Does anyone know you're doing this?"

There is no one alive to tell he is about to throw his task and duty right out the proverbial window and into the deepest pit existent in lake Calanhad. His mouth remains closed, that is rather peculiar.

"Is there a decent reason for me to do this?" She continues without waiting for a reply. _Probably used to his silences._ "Gregoir wants me in a very warm and fiery bed. Irving is trying to forget I exist. I really could live without stepping on their toes all over again."

Cullen moves his lips inaudibly, tries to speak but cannot force the words out. She is right. The long waits, watching over some apprentice's shoulder did take part of his voice away. He has no answer to give her.

"Is the ceiling yellow, the dining hall filled to the brink with beans and all the Templars doing jigs in the middle of the hallways?"

The Templar feels his despair crack and shatter and fall right at his feet. "…what?"

Diana snickers loudly, resting her hand against the lock in a tight grip. "There you go. Voice things, Templar Ser, voice them. I'm not about to get into trouble because an animated statue just came to bother me. Though that _would_ be fun." Telltale sign of magic being used and she's just bloody _daydreaming_. "Alright so, you fill me in while we go up or down or wherever and hightail away from whatever made you scared stiff."

The door opens under her fingertips, her eyes are not even close to serious, her words don't matter and he tries to understand what in the Maker's name he's doing there when the entire Tower has chosen to go _insane_.

"Come on, Commander," she breezes by him, pats his armored arm and he can just stare at the place where she touched him before following dumbly. Because she's sure, she's certain, she's neither afraid nor confused and he's grateful beyond all words.

It's a mad day. He's following a mad person.

Period.


	3. She is annoyed

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

**Author's note: **I need to stop with the weekly updates :(~ To continue.

**In this chapter: **When in fear, be annoyed.

* * *

**003.**

Diana doesn't feel fright that often. There was the first time she saw the Tower. Until that day, the Circle had been nothing more than a word, whispered from scared mouths, used often by parents to force little children into behaving. When she was thrown into it, away from everything, there had been fear. Then the moment she had tried forcing a storm out of her when she clearly had no inclination towards the art. Finally, the Harrowing. And that was it. The good thing about the Tower is that they were protected. From each other, from others, from themselves, the Tower was _protection_ and a part of why she loved it so was because it made her safe.

"What made you think I would take point? You have the flipping big humongous greatsword! Big! I'm a healer, I heal people! Where does this match with going against all of these?"

Step after step, hissing towards her companion in annoyed tones while her fingers tighten on the borrowed staff, Diana is scared all over again. But she hisses and continues annoyed because annoyance is a far better choice than being afraid.

"So you go forward," she orders, literally sheltering herself against his back as they enter the Mage's quarters. She likes his back. Is big. Large. Huge. Hides bodies and blood and demons all at once, it is a _good_ back. Her favorite at the moment. "Why did you bring me anyway?"

Cullen sighs frequently. Or maybe sighs often when around her? The mage leaves that thought for later as they step carefully through the hallways.

"Maybe I thought you would be useful."

She liked it more when he stammered.

"Don't make me unheal you."

She was going to live there, she had studied there, friends had lived in that corner, died in that other. Her stomach threatens to rebel and overturn whatever piece of food she had had for the last week. Why had he brought her out? If only he had explained, they could have. Have turned around. Barricaded themselves inside the prison and prayed for assistance which would come eventually.

Templars? Bastards, the whole bloody lot of them.

"I thought," he stumbles, not over words but over _something_. And stupidly – _thankfully_ – pushes her back against the wall so she never gets to see what it is. Only the silver plate and the very large back. "I thought you couldn't hurt me."

"Wouldn't not couldn't. I said I was a healer, not that I didn't know what a brick to the head does." Or a _staff_. "Dumbass."

The wood feels like it is breaking underneath her fingers and her smile is tense. She can almost see it, lips contorted in a grimace and not full blown laughter. She cannot remember how to laugh, not while the Fade feels so wrong around her. Not even when battling the demons in her Harrowing did she feel this displaced.

There's a belt on his armor and to it, she attaches one of her hands. You know, so he won't lose himself. Templars are not known for their intelligence.

"You're pushing me backwards," he whispers, past the Chapel, past the Senior Enchanter's office which remains scarily empty and Diana is horribly sure she doesn't want to go up anymore. It feels more wrong, like the step before stumbling or the window shield in which she had come too close just once. "Amell?"

He looks over his shoulder, stupidly worried, stupidly afraid that she's about to decompose herself into incoherent matter. Not stupidly. She's almost sure she will, fall apart right there and then. She is scared and her levity is just right behind her, somewhere between her complete lack of courage and the fear any kind of spell she does will bring whatever killed her friends right on them.

"I don't want to go there," her voice says, small and low as it never is, and she tugs on the belt insistently like a child half her age. "This is enough, Commander. I want to go down. The doors, they have to be by the doors, they wouldn't be up here. Let us go down. Please?" Pretty please? What if she begs nicely? Drugging him and leaving his unconscious body to be killed wouldn't look good to everyone else. Besides, she would have to wander by herself after. And that's a huge not-happening event. "Don't make me go."

He is sighing again and she is going to kick him. In the jewels. He doesn't need them, Maker-forsaken bastard. At least_ she_ knows that the Fade is currently backwards and invading the whole Tower, not like him and his stupid talk about 'feelings'. So fine, she had mocked him. But this is a life-threatening kind of fear, not his little badly interpreted shivers.

A gauntleted hand grasps hers. Or tries, enfolding the small one which refuses to let go of the fabric around his waist.

"Look," he starts, sounding serious, sounding just like his true Commander. "We need to go up. The rest of the levels are almost empty. Where do you think they would hide in case of attack?"

She bets down. Away from the place where mages randomly get killed.

"See? You get it." Telepath, he is not. Another nod as if he knows exactly what he's talking about – which he doesn't, dumb kid – and he begins pushing her lightly towards the new set of stairs and the Templar Quarters. "If we find some sane Templars, we can set to stop the other mages. We need their help. And we can't help anyone if we hide like children. So don't worry, we'll be fine."

"I'll look after you," he adds, probably in what he thinks to be a reassuring way.

May someone give her a Mwa and join a AhAhAh. _Funny boy_, she thinks dryly, feeling sarcasm dripping all over her mental conversation, _very funny_.

"What are you doing?"

Banging her head against her staff, what else? With some luck, hitting enough times will make her wake up from the oddly stupid nightmare she is having.

The Templar sighs again but still plunges forward and anything, just about anything is better than staying there alone. And so she follows, keeping as close as possible, ignoring all the things that get stuck on her destroyed robes and ruined shoes. Then again, with the amount of slime already covering her, it's not like the gross pieces of random flesh would actually be new.

He better be scared, Diana thinks as a small group of mages blocks their path, lightning and ice and everything she was always too unfocussed to learn. He better be scared because she's just that close to petrified at some point. Until she remembers these people are supposed to her friends and not bloody attack her, that they are supposed to be brothers and sisters and family and are trying to kill her. And this annoys her too, damnit! They knew better, should know better. Complain about the Circle, they can. Destroy it because they are bored, that's pushing it even for her. And _that's _flipping _it_.

Behind Cullen she casts the highest amount of glyphs she can remember, basking in their protection and the fact that there is this huge amount of muscle with a sword between her and danger.

"Did you just cast a _fireball_?" A _talking_ amount of muscle.

"Only Primal I know, shut it."

They fight somewhat well together.

"Would you mind aiming decently?"

"I am!"

"Then cast when I'm no. Longer. In your way."

Cullen protects her, Diana heals him, he bashes their opponents to the ground – not her friends, not her friends because friends protect each other, they don't try to off one another when their backs are turned – she tries not to freak out every time they seem too close and learns to like two things about him. His big shiny back and his big shiny sword.

"I think that's all of them." A part of her wants to cry now, grip his belt again and forget this is happening. But the other part is still annoyed and she grips the annoyance like a lifeline. It works. It really works. And Diana can swear her sanity is taking a _biiiiiiig_ step backwards right at this moment. "That wasn't so bad! I mean, they did get a few hits on you. And I got a few hits on you but still? We're alive. That's a big plus. Now, could we please go down like I said in the first place?"

Cullen doesn't reply and his shiny amazing back remains where it is.

"Commander?"

Did he get hit while she wasn't watching? Did his brain break? Is he sick? Damnit, he can't be sick, he's the only thing protecting her from anything with the slightest offensive power.

"Commander, you all right?"

He moves, turns around and his eyes aren't what she's used to, strong or weirdly candid, innocent and childish. They're harder, like chips of diamond or the metal staffs the Senior Enchanters prize so much. He moves and something comes close, then closer and then hits her directly, too directly somewhere on her forehead. Hard.

Diana doesn't need to be conscious to know there is a demon somewhere laughing at her. And so, she isn't.


	4. He is confused

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

**Author's note: **guys, while I _hate_ to repeat this, _please_ tell me what you think about the story. Just a small sentence, a good opinion, tons of critisizing, complaints and so on. I would really just like _opinions_. I will try to keep this going, if rather slowly for some time.

**In this chapter: **She is an illusion and he doesn't want it anymore.

* * *

**004.**

Cullen doesn't understand what happened. There are flashes of memories in his mind, too quick to be understood, too fleeting and confusing. He reaches for them, tries to see them better but they always escape before he can catch a glimpse. When he wakes up, there's a light cage all around him and the mage is sitting by his feet, calm as she never is. He also notices the ceiling is up, the floor is down, he is laying on it and the entrance to the Harrowing chamber was never a good place to fall asleep. Even without the mages being brought in and out at arbitrary moments.

He cannot remember just right what in the world is going on. What is he doing there, he asks himself, struggling to move, why and how is Diana right by his side, staring at him with impossible large eyes. And silent. Maker help him, she seems oddly calm and oddly uninterested by his presence. His head also hurts.

"They threw us inside and left again."

Diana refuses to look at him still, toeing a piece of gravel absently with a careful foot. She looks clean, cared and once more the young apprentice who wandered the halls. This is wrong for whatever reason but his head hurts, the floor is making every piece of mail dig into his back and he just can't make sense of this.

Instead, Cullen sits down and searches for his sword. And finds absolutely nothing, _of course_.

"Where are we?" He asks keeping the words _why are we alive_ for himself. They cannot be said just yet. Another movement and he is touching the light wall, pushing and prodding and finding no way to cross it as per previous expectation. A smite, perhaps? Or that would work if he wasn't sapped to the bone. A spell? Can such spell be done?

Diana, oblivious brat that she is, continues playing with the damned rock like it's her favorite pastime. This also sounds wrong. Doesn't seem to fit. Doesn't seem correct. Why and how and his head hurts so much so answers elude him like water through closed fingers.

"You won't be able to leave," she continues yet again in that oddly calm and factual way, not even bothering to reply to his question. "I have tried. Spells. Lightning and Ice. It doesn't work."

And that sounds even odder but for the life of him, he cannot be sure why.

"And Glyphs? Neutralization, you did that earlier", he ponders, daring to touch the shield harder. It is familiar, the sort mages learn as children but so much more powerful. The Templar rubs his hair thoughtfully, wondering where his helm disappeared into. Not his, someone else's, caught between the prison and Chapel but still, where is it? The holes in his memory grow and multiply, making him feel like he has turned eighty in while sleeping.

Once again, the foolish mage says nothing, barely raising his head in acknowledgement. Instead, Diana slips towards the ground, sitting right by his side, hair tumbling down her sides. It touches his arm, right where the mail ends and the gauntlet begins. Clean and golden, as if she has spent hours grooming it.

And that also tastes wrong, like a puzzle piece falling out of place.

"Amell?"

She leans against him, silent and smiling. His head hurts, his concentration is sluggish but he still has enough presence of mind to pull back, just a little and just enough to look at her face. Clean and uninjured when there should be something on her forehead. _Done between the Chapel and the office_. Or maybe just after? Cullen raises his hand without truly thinking about it, touching metal covered fingers to the place where blood should be_. Something there, something strong enough to knock someone unconscious._ He had seen her go down, had he not?

Her head turns lightly, leans against his hand like a cat and a smile is on her face, careless and wrong, so wrong he has no words to describe it. It makes his hand drop like her skin is suddenly on fire..

_Not Diana_, he thinks, scrambling away like a man facing his worst nightmare. Diana was dirty and smelly and weird and completely insane. She did not like his touch. She kept away as much as possible except for conversation, as that kept what little was left of her sanity in place. Diana was injured. Diana was. _He had done it, after all_.

No helm and no injury, the fact that he is there and she's not because this is not her. Like a puzzle, everything crumbles into place.

Cullen feels like screaming.

This _illusion_ talks with her voice, speaks with her lovely mouth, wears her face, her body, her eyes and comes even closer, enough to make his skin crawl and his stomach rebel.

"You know this is what you want," she whispers, gently, gently as she never does, a hand almost touching his cheek. "You asked for it, did you not? Watching behind us, listening to us whispering, wondering what we spoke of. You dreamed. You wished. You begged."

Cullen knows. But he also knows this is nothing more than an illusion, a cruel one at that. In his mind, he can hear the real mage, shrill voice as she is dragged away, and his rationality probably took a leave of absence because.

_Did you really? For serious? _Someone speaks, screeches into his ears. _What kind of pervert are you to stare at me like that? Ew, ew, what in the flipping Fade, look elsewhere, those are my breasts!_

"Just take it. Why not? What pulls you back?" And like an enchantment she comes closer, almost touching, almost there and too close. "No one is here but us. Nothing matters. What stops you?"

_The Tower, Templars, vows and the fact that I'd make you swallow my staff if you touched me. Talking about this, why are you still perverting on my form? Stop ogling, you dumbass or I'll feed you to the apprentices._

The Templar _doesn't _since he can swear the _real _mage is right behind him, right there watching and isn't even close to being pleased, that's why. And while he's on this subject, might as well wonder just how his conscience morphed into the insane mage.

"No. No." Cullen takes a step back, back against the blinding shield. "You're a demon. You're the demon." And the features change like a ripple through water, Diana and a purple face, blonde hair and darker strands, magical robes and nothing, nothing at all.

_This is not me_, _you jerk_.

"You're not real."

The illusion struggles against his mind, clings to every moment in a library, to every second at the door of a cell, clings and it's useless because he knows Diana and Diana is pretty, insane and happy, avoiding his touch like her life depends on it.

"Commander, if you don't get up here and help after getting me here, I'll beat you to an inch of your death with your helm!"

Cullen starts laughing, tethering in the edge between sanity and lunacy, and fails to notice two things.

The demon is nowhere to be seen. And the voice, the one screaming over his laughter, is real.


	5. She is screwed

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

**Author's note: **Sorry if this is a bit off. Unfortunately, work has been kicking me around and that leaves me little time to be upbeat and random. Will try to update sometime soon.

**In this chapter: **When things can get worse, they will. Really. Go with her.

* * *

**005.**

Sometime between her capture and the Chamber, her fear has been lost. It had been right by her side while she walked the halls, while she struggled to keep with the mountain of armored muscle that was that idiotic Templar – _idiotic, stupid, moronic, who gets possessed now, jerkface_? – while she waited in that cell for someone to tell her what was going to become of her. Diana is used to being afraid. But there is something freeing about the fact that things simply cannot get worse.

The Abomination dragging her away pushes her arm more strongly and she finds herself watching it more carefully. It's butt ugly. The kind of thing the old Wynne went _on and on and on on_ how they didn't want to become and hey, _isn't that a pretty fly, why do I have to listen to you again?_ Diana adored the other enchanter, really. If only in that 'you're a kickass healer and that's awesome' way. Not as a person. Boring as a person.

"Who were you again?" Her voice sounds too cheery, too normal. "Mark? Gianna? Wait, wait, I know. Philip!" She chats randomly, doesn't even try to flee because, big thing, big dangerous thing which is going to be her future. The Harrowing taught her well and she doesn't want this. She likes the freedom of being herself, powerless or not, it's a good thing. She wakes in the morning and thinks. Waits by a side but her magic drums through her veins and she's happy because she's special, not cursed.

The harsh hand throws her onto the floor the second they reach the Harrowing Chamber. Really. If they get more clichéd around here, she's going to start laughing. Laughter. Wait, that might be the trick. If she looks, sounds – _basically is_ – out of her mind they might not want her body. Demons keep away from the insane. Like humans.

"No. Uldred. She is just a child."

Through the apathy, she recognizes the voice just in time for a weathered arm to wrap around her shoulders. It's Irving as Diana never saw him even though she has lived over twenty years in that place. Stern and scared and protective like a misplaced father. She doesn't remember her father. She's not afraid. She's not being random, damnit.

"I'm not a child," her voice slips in again. Nicely done. Important to tell the… whatever she was going to think gets chocked in her mind. Eyes widen, pathetically so and she stills, so suddenly that even her flesh seems to hurt.

Uldred had never been well liked in the Tower. Powerful, always above the little insects that apprentices are – _were_. Her eyes shift to the person Irving is facing and there's something else that brings her previous dislike to unknown levels. An old face, a face only a mother would love, _really_, and his magic feels wrong on her skin. Like the demons on the veil when she crossed alone, like rotten flowers and spider blood and venom, like decaying flesh in anatomy class and her stomach churns and turns like it just woke up from a long nap.

_Oh hey, fear. Nice to see you again. Now do me a favor and stop forcing my heart to that speed so I can some air into my lungs. You know, air, life, good stuff_.

Irving pulls her back, covering her line of sight – _awww_ – like she is really a child.

"A child is still a conduct," Uldred grasps out, watching the living, breathing pieces of flesh around like him like pondering who to eat next. "She will have her chance to accept change."

If change implies being turned into a walking mound of disgusting flesh and magic, excuse her while she goes jump out the Tower. Look, pretty windows. She's in.

Where is that idiot, Diana finds herself asking, fingers curled like claws on the First Enchanter's robes. She was there when he needed – _and her heart beats in her ears like a drum_ – she was there when he was afraid – _and the screams echo in her ears and she hides her face in the robes in front of her, warm but not comforting_ – she was there to help and he's not. _Jerk, jerk, jerk, I'm going to make you wash my cell with your tongue when we're done here_.

The girl keeps looking at the stairs, as if that miracle is going to happen soon.

_Hrm_.

It does indeed. The first thing she sees is this walking ton of muscle. Armored too, taller than the jerk, swinging a huge sword like it's easier than a handling a toothpick. He's big. He's huge. Who cares what's he's doing there? Next comes – _urgh_ – Wynne, pretty and washed, Maker damn her. Then another guy who's not the jerk – _huh_ – and finally this wisp of a girl dressed in so much armor that it's a wonder how she can give two steps forward without toppling over. Reinforcements, yay?

She leans a little forward to stare at the Uldred-Thing's face and wage his reaction. Calm, always calm and _Maker freaking above, what the flipping demons?_ And then Uldred-Thing's a huge freaking demon, horned _thing,_ huge, huge, dear Maker, huge. Diana thinks nothing at that moment. She rips her hold on Irving, grabs his arm instead and hauls him with her. Screw being brave, her fear singsongs in her ears, screw being special. They're getting out and they're getting out _now_, while the Thing tries to chop the weird group who is just a very handy flesh barrier.

"Child."

Screw being a child too. Children aren't this afraid of death. Children are innocent and she's not.

"We must help," Irving declares simply, this is a lesson and she's still the student. "Would you leave your friends to die here?"

Months in a cell. Let her think on the subject. _Yes_?

"Come on. Up we go."

Why does she agree with this? Why does she walk back, blindly, grasped now by the First Enchanter instead of the other way around? Diana is there though, on the back, the right side for a good healer, casting back and forth – _she wasn't tortured, she is strong, she can do this_ – and trying to battle every whisper in her head which says give in. Until the weirdo in the smallest armor yells something and the whispers go quiet. Again and again, the cycle goes, so familiar and close to her fight with the jerk that Diana almost thinks someone will get possessed and gift her a new bruise on her forehead.

But then, right when she's so tired that giving up and passing out seems the right thing to do, it's over. Uldred lays dead, a bloody carcass on the floor in front of her and she is dragged _again_ by the smallest armored guy. Her face scrunches like a little girl and she uses her bloodied sleeve to avoid any childish reaction. Ah. Fade with it. She's crying then, crying and laughing because she is _she_ still and that's a _very good thing_ even if even her tear ducts are in pain now.

The smallest armored guy dumps her on an Enchanter after the first sniffle.

Down and down and down, they go. All through the Tower. Kids, kids lived, Niall, Niall's body right by her feet and he was a good guy, all round good guy if a little coward, Keili lived, _what in the freaking Fade_? And Gregoir too, looking at her like he feels sorry there's blood still in her veins. By his side, the _jerk_. Who wants them all dead.

All dead. They might be possessed, he says. Well, he was possessed, she screams silently, he harmed her. He did.

Diana slips through the arguing party with just one thought in mind, ignoring everyone else. They don't matter. This is unfair anyway, she wasn't possessed, _he_ was, bloody hypocritical _asshole_. Arm is pulled back, fingers close into a fist and her hand literally breaks when it hits his nose. She knows bones, ligaments, veins and blood just as well as she knows her knuckles are cracked in two different places. Her magic throbs in reply. Add a minor fracture on a third finger.

Cullen's nose skirts blood, drips down skin, slides until his armor is brightly decorated. It's oddly satisfying.

"I don't care anymore!" She shouts to her very armored audience. "This jerk took me out of my cell and dragged me all over killing demons and abominations and Mariah and Cecily and Jeremy and he hit me! He hit me and it hurt and I'm babbling but _I almost died_ and and." Maker. Maker above. Diana looks at every face, _incredulity, anger, sadness, there, kindness_. "I want a hug."

She sobs all over Irving.

For some reason, it makes the offer to help against Blight much less solemn than it should have been.

* * *

**Author's note-2**: Party that fought Uldred. Tasha Tabris (Redcliffe and Rainsfere), Sten, Alistair and Wynne.


	6. He is doomed

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

**Author's note: **Cullen always takes more work to write. And if people think he is being ooc or recovering somewhat quickly, I would remind that A) he spent the last months looking over this particular mage and B) I'll leave tons of drama for RA.

**In this chapter: **He's _not_ sorry. He's just lacking healers. Period.

* * *

**006.**

There are no healers in the whole Tower. Not one. Not one single mage. That is what the survivors tell him every time Cullen walks by. _'I am so sorry, Ser.' 'It must truly hurt.' 'Work of demons, of course. I feel for you.' 'Shame Wynne left, she was the last'._ He would believe these words if most weren't spoken with sardonic smiles, wide innocent eyes or flat glares accompanying dry voices. Guess the story did get around, never mind how few are around to spread it. Or perhaps it spread around that fast because they are few. Maker, if it takes that long for him to reach such a simple conclusion, the injury is far worse than he thought.

Cullen had, _apparently_, proclaimed his wish for the Right of Annulment a little too loudly.

Though! Maker help him, he's right in this. Demons had taken over the Tower. They had possessed people, blood magic staining walls and floor, used against him, against the rest of the Templars. That was unnatural. It would be better to simply eliminate the risk, cut the evil by its roots.

Though. As Amell strongly declared – _and his jaw echoed, how did such a small thing had that much strength?_ – he had been possessed too. It made him want to soak in the Lake for hours to no end, burn away his skin, rub it raw until he was sure no trace remained. The sheer idea, the feeling of having someone grasping inside, meddling, pushing with those things he buried deep. Nothing seemed as disgusting. To kill those creatures, to push them out his life, he had been ready for anything. Was ready for anything. Just not for Amell to go completely crazy and fulfill the threat she had done early. Minus staff.

He's not looking for her. He's not. His jaw just hurts and she's the one healer in the whole Tower. He's not looking, even if he goes up and down the Tower – avoiding carefully both his previous Quarters and the very top. He's not looking. He just _happens_ to stumble across her old cell and the figure crouched at a corner.

The door is open, cell and mage strangely clean and the bed is unmade.

"If I have to tell anyone else to butt off, I'm gonna start sending fireballs instead of glyphs. The matter with you people? Don't you understand a good common threat anymore? Do I need to be covered in purple and naked waist up?"

Telling her she would probably miss with her aim will not endear him to her. Either his face will remain unhealed or she'll attach another bruise to the opposing side. Cullen errs on the side of caution and keeps silent, his boots clattering too loudly as he crosses the space between him and the bars.

Her eyes rise to meet him exactly then. No visible bruises on her skin and her hand has been healed – _not bitter, not at all._ Robes are the Tower standard for a mage, replacing those destroyed over her visit to repository, months within a cell and his own stupidity. Her hair, finally clean and clipped neatly on the back. Harrowed Mage Amell in all her glory. In a cell. The logic escapes him, as per usual around her.

"Did you answer to the Knight-Commander that way?" _Bad way to start, mouth, bad way_. He should have rehearsed this. But exactly how does one undo 'kill them all' into something that seems sensible? _Hey, I didn't mean you, just the rest of the Tower because they nearly killed me? And you're out because I nearly killed you. Forgive me? _No. No, he's not there because he feels bad for her. He feels bad for himself.

Diana's eyes don't narrow. In fact, she doesn't seem angry at all, just her usual airheaded self. "Threatened to sob all over him. Didn't even remember I helped out Jowan and just moved along. Templars." And despite the casual tone, the word definitely sounds like an insult.

"And why aren't you attacking me yet?"

A scoff, like the answer's just _that_ obvious. "You're big. And a Templar. And standing in front of me. In armor with a big sword."

"I also was before," he comments unhelpfully. It must be his guilt complex, wanting her to hurt him or something.

_Wait_. No. He's not feeling guilty.

"_Before_ you were raving like a lunatic while looking elsewhere. I was emotionally exhausted not insane." Disagreed on all accounts. Diana moves a little, enough for him to see the staff behind her. Completely metallic, an Enchanter's staff. "Why are you here anyway? This is a cell."

As in the cell she complained over and over about, the one she wished to leave as soon as possible. Better question is, why is she there? The Templar almost voices it when she replies to it instead. Her left hand, the one away from him, finds the staff and grips it, he sees. Comfort. _Do absurd people need that_?

"Where else am I supposed to be?" She interrupts, _is that a sharp tone_? "My bed upstairs is kinda occupied."

Reality clashes in with the strength of a stonefist and they both shiver, the same ghosts passing through their bodies. Diana doesn't apologize for reminding him of what happened. Instead, she rubs their wounds with salt, drops wine in appropriate amount and allows them to sting for the right amount of time. Cullen knows then she'll never _ever_ forget he tried killing her. Well, them. Her kind.

"I'm not apologizing." Definitely not the way the conversation was supposed to go but he can't stop the words. He won't lie for her benefit. Mages aren't to be trusted because they can become those things. That fear lies in his very bones, in the blood rushing when he remembers.

Her lithe fingers pluck a small stone from the floor and carelessly throw it. Very near his head, look at that? Maker, she thoroughly adores him at the moment.

"I'll just keep punching you." Yes. Adore. Like a Mabari adores Dragons.

"Until I cave in and say I'm sorry?"

"Until I'm tired of breaking my hand, more likely. How is everything outside?"

Chaos. Chaos and that word is an understatement if he ever heard one.

"Bad."

"Ah."

Diana Amell is inane. Once, he had watched from afar and seen just a laughing figure, content inside the four walls of the Circle. Then, he had come closer and met someone who made no sense, who made a floor into a ceiling and walked in the clouds all the bloody time. Diana Amell isn't afraid. Just as Ser Cullen is calm and doesn't rave, doesn't raise his voice and doesn't try to interfere in matters high above his pay grade.

Briefly, Cullen wonders if she'll ever accept to consort with a demon. And how would she feel if he cut her down for that.

Amell stands, staff left behind so perhaps no fireball and stretches until it seems all her joints cringe. Then leans in so quickly that he has to take two steps back to avoid bumping heads.

"I'm a mage, Commander." Yes, he noticed. All five years, two hundred and seventy days since he first knew her – _how the hell does he know that_? "You're a Templar." No, really? Maker, now he sounds like her. "I'm always going to want to hurt you for wanting to use that sword and you're always going to think I'm some sort of disaster waiting to happen." _Waiting_? "Let's just agree to disagree, I'll forget you dragged me out and forced me to battle when I'm _not_ a battlemage and nearly killed me and you'll forget. One second. I didn't do anything. Nothing to forget."

A complaint is just waiting to be done. It would be so easy, so quick, right there at the tip of his tongue. By the look on her face, Diana expects him to grab the olive branch and smack it right into her face. Which means he'll have Fireball for dinner and she a Greatsword.

"Next time, not in front of the Knight-Commander." _Wait_. _What did he say again_?

A grin. Amell smiles, that bright nonsensical grin of hers which makes him want to run for the hills, metaphorically speaking. Diana is Diana again, the pre-disaster Mage, the insane Maker-forsaken fool who walks constantly on the Fade when awake. He has doomed the Broken Circle and Gregoir is going to drown him in the Lake in _five. Four_.

"If I asked you to heal my face?"

"I wouldn't do it."

Should bother him more. It should. _Three, two, one._


	7. She is volunteered

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

**Author's note: **I don't even know what to think of this. Just so it won't be too confusing, the scenes in italic are _past scenes_. I won't think overly much or I'll have to rewrite it and this took more than two weeks :| Hence why it's the longest yet.

**In this chapter: **Crap. _Crap crap_. Can she go back to her cell now?

* * *

**007.**

It doesn't take that long for Irving to send her back to the apprentices' quarters. It takes him even less to get her to help clean up. It's as disgusting as it sounds when the order is first uttered. I mean, really. Cleaning guts off walls, grabbing pieces of dragon from every shelf, this is no work for a mage. It's no way to convince Apostates either. Come to the Circle and learn, abandon blood magic, fear no demons and clean up remains of abominations all in one. Free of charge. Yes, that would work.

Diana helps though and, Maker help her, manages to keep her bile well down as she moves around. Irving is right. Even if it feels like lemon juice down her throat to admit, he is. They need to avoid diseases, they need to prepare, they need their normalcy back. For the first time since Diana stepped through those doors – and she was so young, a lifetime ago which she doesn't remember anymore – she sees mage and Templar working together. They fear each other but move together, work together, become the other's support as Uldred's stupidity taints them all. It touched her too.

Not in a visible manner, she ponders irritably while gathering books scattered throughout the library, not in a demony-blood magic way. More in showing her how flimsy her protection had been. The Senior Enchanter might have been a flipping big ass, murderer and everything she now hates but wasn't totally useless. He opened her eyes wide.

* * *

"_You want what, girl?"_

_This woman is scary but not Uldred scary. Not abomination scary. She can't possess her body, can't corrupt her, can't use her for her own purposes – well, she hopes. Here's to hoping. _

_"Teach me." Her voice doesn't shake, stable and light as ever. "I want you to teach me."_

* * *

Diana is a mage and adores it. That flow under her skin, the lightning she can never master but can feel every time there's a storm outside, the lure of the Fade when she closes her eyes to sleep. She is a healer though. She knows how to reconstruct, put cells together, replenish blood and water and everything that's inside a body until life's there and not fleeing. She is a healer most of all. It makes her weak and easy to kill, not stupid.

* * *

"_It's not like it will take a lot of time, right? Should be an easy spell. Well, not easy. I can handle it."_

_She is an apostate and adores it. Diana belongs to the Circle through and through and really, that doesn't bother her. Still, they are both mages, never mind the differences between them. Never mind that Irving's magic feels like the mountains and the walls of the Tower, that Wynne leaves a touch that is like aged wine and sunset and that this woman feels like stale water and hurricanes at the same time. It should be enough to scare her. But Uldred was a deep dark pit, sulfur and lyrium and spider venom underneath her skin. The woman is nothing compared to that._

"_So, will you?" The healer gives her best grin, her best smile, calm, calm, she can do this, she can't be that bad at rhetoric._

* * *

There is glass in the mist of the paper, she notices. Stupidly, only when they're already on her skin and staining the sheets around. Maker damnit, everything is against her. Diana dumps herself unceremoniously on the floor, forgetting there are even more shards underneath her robes, and rubs the blood that pools on her fingers. Why can't she just keep to her corner? Really. Just. Stop making waves. Ignore people. It would be so easy to keep to a corner and not speak. She managed it in her cell. Ask the idiot, he can tell them.

Only she kind of talked to _him_. It would be counterproductive to her argument.

Her pattern of thought is pointless so she discards it and sucks on her thumb. Maker help her. She's so screwed.

* * *

_Up on her pedestal, the woman looks down on her, her breasts almost too close for comfort. It would sound awful if Diana just asked her to step back, wouldn't it? She's not a prude but that's like. A veil. Desire demons cover the unmentionables a little better._

"_Why do you want this?" She asks arrogantly and, if her nose is any higher, she'll be staring at the bloody ceiling. "You have studied something of interest here, haven't you? I doubt you cannot do enough magic to defend yourself. You survived."_

_Not thanks to her efforts. Not to her glyphs, not to her healing, not to anything that got out of her hands, even the fire that obeys only because it's wild. She is just stupidly useless when left to fend by herself. Uldred taught her that._

"_Because I might get killed otherwise and you don't want that on your conscience?"_

…_does she even have one?_

_The chasind smiles as if she can hear the question and the answer is too obvious for words._

* * *

Again, Diana notices nothing until it is already taking place. Heavy metal boots against broken glass, the clinking of armor right next to her ears and she stops sucking on her finger just in time to seem less of a moron. Weirdly, she doesn't need to look up. Whoever it is, is in armor. Not a mage. Whoever it is, is a Templar. Who else would stand and wait like some sort of misplaced pillar around her? Yeah.

"What are you doing here?" Cullen's voice inquires, tearing her thoughts apart.

She doesn't bother to stand. She doesn't even bother to move. This is all his fault anyway – _a dark, bitter little thought that keeps repeating itself over and over_. If he had just protected her like he was supposed to. What kind of Templar doesn't use the sword it carries for something right? No. Instead he harms the wrong person and leaves her to be eaten away by a filthy old man and his troupe of mismatched kitchen accidents. Bastard.

The blood pools again and flips all her attention from his boots to the gash, from her bitterness to something productive. A finger against it and the flicker of a spark leaves a closed wound in its wake. Useless in a battle, useful only in the aftermath.

* * *

"_The truth, girl. I will not lose my time with your kind of people." Right, apostates are just the cherry on the top of every cake in Thedas. Bite lip, baby, bite it, not saying things might help and, you know, not insulting might too._

_The staff on her back is cold. Metallic. Feels right and adequate for one such as her. Diana never thought she would believe it to be insufficient. Just as she didn't think the Circle could burn and crash, break until there was nothing more than blood and remains. The woman though, this woman carries a sword. And it flashes with touches of ice, enchantments all over the surface, much more deadly than her inadequate tool. _

"_Blades harm. Demons and mages and Templars." she finally replies, truthfully, a shrug right at the end of her words. "Magic doesn't. Or less effectively. I might need it."_

_Dear Maker, the apostate's smile is like a dragonling licking its teeth. "Some would call that rebellion. Some would think you wish to leave."_

_Those would be very stupid. Anyone knows phylacteries are in Denerim, far away from her grasp. Not to mention bugs, danger, bandits, danger, she can't cook, obvious things. Her lips open to contradict the idea but Morrigan is already taking the sword from its sheath, the slippery longsword seeming as light as a feather in her hands. Not a word, as if the idea of a Circle mage risking being snapped in two by a Templar blade is just too good to pass up. _

_After she learns this spell, Diana should warn the Warden that she has a homicidal maniac at her back. It's just good manners._

_Side note. Next time, check if Irving is on the other side of the Tower and not watching.  
_

* * *

There's a louder rustle of armor and, suddenly, her line of vision is filled with that stupid Sword of Mercy symbol they parade everywhere as Cullen sits. Eyes go slightly higher and Diana's a healer, she can see the traces. He's tired, probably hasn't slept long in the last week – it's not like her own dreams are all sunshine and daisies – and the skin darkens around his eyes, framing his features now that weight has been lost.

She feels sorry. She feels a little bit of pity, being possessed probably wasn't on his to-do list. She even feels a little less bitter, less prone to dump all her problems on him, never mind that she's going to get killed and he is to blame. He didn't protect her and he should have.

"What has happened?"

Somewhere along the line, they got to understand each other. He's tired, she's scared, he's asking and she should just tell him to go upstairs now and jump out the window because if he had listened to her? They would have been safe much much sooner. Bet he didn't like the cage. Except he didn't, she faced Uldred, learned of her frailty and is now doomed beyond description.

But, somewhere along the line, Diana forgets he is a Templar and he becomes. Well. Cullen.

"Irving did," the mage begins slowly what soon becomes a long rant, followed by something that degrades into incoherent babble where dread permeates every word.

He doesn't stop her.

* * *

"_We must speak of your punishment."_

_At first, the words spoken by the First Enchanter don't filter through her mind. His office seems equal to itself now, one of the first to be cleaned and pushed into proper condition. It is needed, after all. The destroyed books are to a corner, ready to be sorted into salvageable and waste disposal. The open chest ready to receive whatever secrets, papers filling every inch of the desk and threatening to fall through the sides._

_Then the word 'punishment' hits her with the strength of a small ox and she finds her jaw is trying very hard to meet the floor. Punishment? She was kept inside a filthy cell for ages! And then dragged and tortured and almost turned into a giant blob and beaten. The old mentally deranged man takes her silence as approval to continue. _

_"I am sure you heard the Circle will be lending our help to the Grey Wardens," he states, just in case her mental breakdown made it impossible for her to pay attention. "We have little people but, all we can, will be sent. Sadly. I wish we had more time to rebuild and repair. Hm. Still, our word is one alone and the Blight waits for no man."_

_Diana doesn't like the path this conversation's taking._

"_You and Petra will lead the recently harrowed." _Oh. Dear. Maker._ "I will take the Senior Enchanters except Leorah. She will accompany you and make sure none strays. I am confident you will not try to escape, if nothing else. Prepare yourself. The order to depart should come soon."_

_Ah. _Ahah._ He can't be saying what she thinks he's saying. She is just a bloody healer, one who almost died and she's bloody young, why doesn't he go right in front of the dragon, damnit? Send the Templars. Send the dwarves. Send someone who is actually ready to face anything stronger than a rat._

"_I don't want to go!" Way to drive the argument home, Amell._

_The First doesn't bat an eyelash in surprise. "Still," he continues, infuriatingly calm. "You will be going. You can fight."_

_No. No, she can't. She can lift a sword, it's very different._

"_I can also trip over my own two feet." And that's pure despair talking. "What makes you think I won't trip myself against a sword?"_

* * *

"And you see, he wants me to go and I can't use the bloody sword to save my life, never mind to use it against something with teeth larger than my arm. I'm going to die. Why can't he just do it? If he's that keen on my funeral, we just need black robes. Well, armor for you. And someone to cast the fireball. Unless he really wants me to go out with a bang and makes me cast it. Tacky though, very cheap of him."

The Circle is in shambles, her little home, her little prison. Diana doesn't want to leave. She wants to stay and rebuild, make it better. She also has a very healthy self-preservation instinct and doesn't see why everyone, from Irving to Jowan, feels like murdering it all the bloody time.

"Life sucks." Dying's going to suck even more.

"You will be leaving this soon?" _What has she been ranting about for the past ten or so min-!_ Green eyes widen in realization as she stares at his face, sees beyond, behind the tiredness that traces his features. The mage sees worry and it's not the one connected to her becoming a big bad abomination when he's not around. It's like he actually believes she can and will die if she leaves. Like he agrees with her. "I don't understand. There are others. More experienced. You are barely harrowed, he can't expect you to take this burden this quickly."

Holy Maker, Cullen's defending her. Quick, check the sky for Andraste. Unless he thinks she's a coward and will start running away as soon as possible. One look at him and that's also dismissed. He _looks_ worried for her sake, his brow furrowed in that little stern expression he tries to borrow from Gregoir and that really doesn't work because Gregoir makes it threatening and Cullen makes it – dare she say – childishly cute. Trying to fill daddy's shoes.

Still, her anxiety uncurls its little tendrils, frees her lungs, allows her breathing to return very slowly to normal.

"I'm sorry, Amell." He sounds sincere, that puppy look that made her snicker every time she saw him on the hallways. The one that made Jowan mock the living Fade out of her over and over again. "I wish I could help in some way."

He is. Just by listening, by taking her side against the First Enchanter – probably backed by Gregoir – by understanding just how easily she can die all over again. But there is also one more thing he can do.

A slow, very slow smile touches her lips, side to side, a young mabari in front of a very tasty meal. Cullen seems to realize he just offered himself as the proverbial sacrifice. And missed the chance to jump off the ship about one minute before the conversation began.

"Well," it widens even more as she points behind him. Or more correctly, to his back and the huge sword he carries everywhere, especially now. "There is _one_ thing you can do for me."

_Eh eh eh_.

"You are laughing oddly, Amell."

Diana weaves her web, threads and traps and he might want to run but won't. It's Fate, dear Templar, to suffer just as she does. It's Gregoir and Irving. Or her very sadistic sense of justice, take your pick and do what she says.

His exasperated sigh is loud enough to be heard in Antiva.


	8. He is deceived

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

**Author's note: **Guys, I need to know something. Is the story getting boring? Perhaps not funny or confusing? I'd just like to know if this is something enjoyable or its purpose is getting lost in the way. I like writing it but. I'd like to know that people like _reading_ it.

**In this chapter: **Dearest wall, the way to survive isn't through suicidal maneuvers. Do listen since she won't.

* * *

**008**.

There are bad ideas. And then there are _bad_ ideas. And then a third category of _extremely bad_ ideas. Cullen doesn't need to spend much time thinking which one this gets stuck as. Neither. Teaching swordsmanship to a mage – to _Amell_ of all people – ranks high in the stupidly and impossibly moronically bad ideas.

It's necessary. The man had never noticed before but, after Uldred and the blood mages, he was forced to realize that a mage such as she is not fit for the front of battle. Her shields are sound, her glyphs are helpful to a party she wishes to protect, her healing better than many he has seen. And Wynne made it sure to set the standards rather high. Bar one or two fire based spells though, she is close to incapable in offense.

He doesn't want her to die either. Can't explain it, _won't_ even if forced by Gregoir himself. He just doesn't want her to. That makes _this_ necessary and, as a Templar, Cullen always does what is necessary. Even if it means going out of his way and stabbing his duty into oblivion.

In the beginning, the Templar had hoped it was just one of her random ideas. Quick, fleeting, impossible to realize. She is such a small thing, Amell, tall but thin, a human-sized figurine underneath fabric. To handle a staff is complicated enough for most mages. A sword, a greatsword of all things, that is impossible.

Until she grins in _that_ way, raises her hand in a spell never seen before and Cullen finds himself vowing to strike the apostate down as soon as the Warden returns.

"Again." A sigh precedes and follows her exclamation. His own in fact, who doesn't understand how this situation is taking place.

Diana stands in the middle of the Great Hall. The reconstruction hasn't begun but the cleaning has, everything that could remind them of difficult times burnt outside of the Tower. And the space seems sadder this way, it might, it does. Cullen doesn't complain because emptiness is far better than the alternative. The half broken central statue looms over the both of them, Amell's the only smiling face. The rest is either destroyed or, in his case, trying very hard not to find a particularly hard piece of wall to bash his head against.

"Haven't you had enough for today, Amell?"

He had tried to convince her to err on the side of caution and take something lighter, perhaps armor fit for a rogue. He mentioned daggers, faster, easier to hide and interchange with her staff even if that same easiness could lead to a nicely stabbed Templar back. He had tried to make her see reason.

_Or, he could just direct his comments to the wall which actually pays attention._

"Not really," she shouts over her armored shoulder, making no effort to hide how much she loves this. The chainmail looks odd against her skin – _good Maker, where has she found that_ – used as he is to see her in light fabrics. Even worse is the large greatsword in her hands, gripped tightly and supported against that same shoulder. Cullen thought this would be too much for the small mage. Instead, she looks thrilled with it. She uses the blade like a battering ram and raids everything in front of her. Moves quickly thanks to whatever that stupid spell does and _laughs_ every time she gets to push a target against the floor.

Cullen isn't eager to explain this to Gregoir.

Amell balances herself on her tiptoes and back again, the huge sword following her movements like some mismatched toy. "I don't have that much time to get this right," _or others to order around, sadly_. "Irving told us the Warden is getting the dwarves now. Orzammar and back, that's less than three weeks."

"Most people take years to master anything. This is as good as you'll manage for now." _The level she should learn and nothing else. Anything more and it is dangerous_. Cullen focuses on the loophole. It is a Blight out there and this is a forgotten spell. Both are the reason why he has yet to report to his Commander, nothing else.

"But another round doesn't hurt, right?" _Knowing her, it will_. "Besides, what do we have to do besides cleaning up?"

Many things. Many many things to repair but Cullen has no will to speak of them. Instead, he raises his own sword into position, watching as she sidesteps carefully into the stance he first taught her and then moves without warning.

He has the upper hand. Whatever strength her magic gives her, Amell lacks the finesse of years using a sword, lacks the instinct to pull back and measure the opponent carefully. But, he realizes as their blades clash, as he pushes a little bit harder like the darkspawn will do, she knows when to pull back. That's good. When to retreat, _sidestep to the right_, never twice in the same movement, _backwards and a wide arc that'd take his arm if he had been on her way_, a small body which is harder to hit.

"Maker above, Amell, stop trying to take my head off, hamper instead of going for the kill." Again, the woman lacks finesse. The Templar can think of a hundred ways she could lose her _own_ if she keeps fighting like this.

Another swing which would likely cut his knee cleanly off. "I'm not! I'm just." _If it hit_. "Maker damnit, you're like a bloody snake." The part of him which isn't focused on getting away from her blade is deeply offended. The other – _the Templar who stuttered when speaking_ – stares at her and feels – _stupidly_ – like smiling.

Amell looks happy. It might be because she has a free pass to try and harm him or just because there's no Jowan. No blood magic, no demons, no broken Circle. There are her eyes, green and wild, that laughter that bubbles from her chest and steals her breath away when she should save it. It makes one feel things are fine and Cullen can't consider her mad then. For that small moment, he understands why fire is the only thing she can master, why healing is her purpose and why moving, dancing around with a sword twice her size makes her laugh. Life. Diana loves life, every hour, every minute, every second. And she doesn't want to die – the day before, the library, her request which was just a polite demand – but Fade if she's not going to milk it out before it ends.

"Maker forsaken damnit, would you stand still?" Like the apprentice he once watched, just slightly more murderous. "I wish I could stonefist you."

"You can't," his useless reply, not humorous, never amused. _Another sidestep from something with the bluntness of a bronto. _"The darkspawn won't obey you anymore than I will."

He almost respects her.

Right until the moment Amell casts something, one hand moving quickly, her words intelligible under her breath, before slamming headfirst into his stomach. _Armored _stomach. Why is he even trying? There's no need for him to try, she'll just kill herself against the first wall she finds if the only tactic she can think of is headbutting opponents to submission.

Cullen sighs, opening his mouth to tell her, _again_, how stupid she is and taking _absolutely no pleasure in it, of course not_ when he notices something special. Like how his feet cannot move, his hands are stuck in place and his sword is clanging noisily against the floor. A glyph. She trapped him in a glyph.

"Yes! I _won_! Ah Fade, lower, Diana, lower." The mage crouches to floor, holding her head after something that'd get her killed and laughs. Dear Maker. He has no words for this. "You and your moronic armors. Maker. Ah right, healing." She keeps snickering as if her tactic wasn't pure suicide, lighting like fireworks as she heals herself first and dispels the temporary prison _far_ after.

His mouth closes. _Wall, you are going to die if you try this with darkspawn. Fair warning_.

By common accord, they both slump against the floor. He because of memories – _why that spell of all things_ – and she because she is finally tired, the last traces of adrenaline fading. Back to back, heavy breathing, blades resting on their knees in the exact same way. They move little for quite a while. Well, five minutes. It's much more than what she manages on a daily basis.

"Commander?" Cullen forgoes correcting her. Again, one of those useless things to do. He is Commander to her and she is Amell to him, nothing more. A non-committable grunt is enough to tell her he is listening. "What will you do when I'm gone?"

_Gone _gone_ or gone north? _Both meanings can be used. Another sound that's neither here nor there as a reply. He's a Templar. Templars guard. Just because she's not there, he won't be changing.

"Bet you'll miss me," Amell continues without missing a break and, even with his back to her, he can see her smile. Her head turned to the ceiling, beating uncomfortably against the back of his armor. "Bet you'll get up in the night and go 'hey, wonder if that wonderful amazing incredible mage is ripping apart hordes and hordes of darkspawn for me. Keeping me all safe and cozy in my little bed'."

"You would lose that bet."

She lets out a snort worthy of the rowdiest dwarf of Orzammar. "Bull."

"I will be wondering when you'll get yourself killed. Headfirst, Amell?"

"My hands were busy." Yes, exactly why he advised _daggers_. She's facing a battlefield, not some bar fight. She can die out there. "At least I won't be taken by a demon and forced to do unspeakable things to proper little boys or dragonlings. Or spiders." Amell cuts herself off, shrugging against his armor. He can hear where it rustles against hers. "Though, if anxiety was gold, we'd be able to raid the weaponmaster downstairs. He has this awesome staff that'd cost me an arm and a leg. Can I say something?"

_No._ The last time she did so, he ended up roped into this inanity_. No_, because all her ideas usually make him act bizarrely. _Yes._ Since she might not be there soon.

Amell takes his silence as approval, as usual.

"I lied. When you asked me about Jowan. Not that I didn't want to help him or anything, I _did_. But it wasn't just because he had always been there. I was _angry_ at him." Head against his back, they're not friends, they're nothing of the sort and she doesn't explain the _why_ of that anger, just that existed. "But none of you understands. You're Templars, you get to live using this thing, you get to die using it. It is so much better than turning into Owain." _She is harrowed, she would nev— _"Don't tell anyone, will you, Commander? I might just have to kill you when I get back and that'd make a lousy victory celebration."

_This seems uncomfortably like companionship_, whispers that voice in the back of his head, the one that is suspiciously similar to Gregoir's. _This is too close to a mage. It will make your blade dull, it will make you hesitate. It will. Bring _that thing_ back._

"I also like your sword, can I have it?"

_Oh. Maker._

Something takes residence on his throat right then, taking the perfect path if its will is to keep him from breathing. _Did she? What? Huh? Maker, it is the desire demon. He does not think these things. He doesn't. He._

"Knew you had a dirty mind," Amell comments blandly over his coughing. "I had a betting pool with Jowan. He owes me five."

_She_ is a demon. She doesn't need to be possessed, she is one. And anything that tries to kill her will die first because she'll find their injury and press like there's no tomorrow.

_Companionship? Companionship where?_

"Just get up, Amell. Stop idling around." Cullen gives the example, brandishing the sword like it's part of his arm, staring at her eyes – _green, green and amused_ – until she understands his meaning – _and they turn bright, like fire and adrenaline before a fight_. "Again."

The Templar forgets her words quickly, both personal and _improper _ones, taking them as the metaphor he truly would never _ever_ think of.

He shouldn't have.

His greatsword does go missing on the exact day Amell leaves.


	9. Interlude: she without him

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

**Author's note: **I'm not completely pleased with this. Seems a bit forced in some moments. I just wanted to make something slightly_, _very slightly serious but it seems Diana comes easier when Cullen's around. It needed to be done. Posting before I decide to rewrite everything.

**In this chapter: **Just because she's grateful, doesn't mean she'll shout it to the four winds. **  
**

* * *

**009.**

Being out of the Tower isn't as interesting as it sounds. Diana uses the first half an hour to observe the sky. It doesn't change much, wide, blue and never-ending. _Boring_. Then the earth. It feels weird underneath her booted feet, filled with holes and uneven rocks, nothing like the smooth floors of the Tower she's used to. The mage decides she doesn't like it either. Trees – _too many leaves on her hair_ – bugs – _any uncovered skin is suffering_ – and the cold, all find their way into her not-like list. It doesn't take long for the girl to search for something to ground herself in this maelstrom.

Irving's back is glared at for a good hour. It's familiar, it's ridiculous and it's damned useless –_ since he refuses to drop in a dead faint even after she adds the smolder-glare combo_ - but makes her feel better. Good enough to try and mingle.

The column isn't homogeneous. In the front, walk both the Wardens and the King's soldiers. In the middle, the elves – introduced as Dalish and filed into the category of as annoying as any Pride Demon that ever walked the Fade. Then them, all magic filled and self-important even though they're mostly sword fodder. Finally, the dwarves._ Dwarves_.

Dwarves are mighty fun. Not the nobles nor the dead ones – who look mighty alive, by the way. But the warrior-not-completely-arrogant kind. Rowdy people really. Tell jokes, laugh, threaten each other, drink like twice as much as any human. But more than that, they don't care that she's a mage parading as a warrior nor that she's a mage, period. It's _refreshing_. Raised between Templars and Chantry apologists, Diana can't remember the last time someone disregarded that part of her. They do wonder loudly, however, if there are actually hips and breasts underneath her armor. It leads to her asking if they have male parts underneath theirs. They offer to show them to her.

Moment in which Diana decides there's something she _really_ needs to buy in that precise instant and delays very quickly to join the merchants. Rude – _just how do people propose themselves out of the Tower anyway?_ _Isn't showing your private parts a little too direct?_ – but public orgy is too promiscuous even for Tower standards. Especially with dwarves.

_Why not someone like the King guy? He looks cute. Blonde and tall and all muscle-y. Isn't familiar at all. Not one bit, not at all. Stop staring. _

An ox licks her face and drools all over her skin. Stops staring though.

Maker damnit, everything's so boring. The thought comes over and over as her legs are forced to keep moving, complaining loudly even spells keeping her afloat. The sunset is still away, they won't stop until then. With luck. If they lack it – and since hers has been so plentiful lately – as soon as the sun sets they'll be near Denerim and in trouble. Oh well. Least it'll be more animated than the weird dwarf and his father she's currently stuck with. Best company ever.

"Enchantment?"

_Ever_.

"He is wondering about your sword, messere."

In her mind, Irving stops being strangled and dipped into boiling chocolate – hey, anything to get distracted – and is replaced by the bearded merchant who she's accompanying. Boten – _whatever the guy's name is_ – points at the sword she's currently carrying. _His_ sword. A little bit longer than the one she had practiced with, it rises well above her head, it draws attention. Just like Cullen is taller than her by a good couple of inches. His hands are also bigger, longer fingers which dwarf hers – _dwarf, get it_? It's stupid, the reason why she borrowed it on a permanent basis so she doesn't speak or think it. Denial, boys and girls, learn it and keep it close.

"Wondering what?" She asks anyway. "It's just a sword. It's not stolen or anything, I have no idea why you wonder anything. And it's mine, I am a mage with a sword." _Where are you two looking with those shifty shifty eyes, it is mine, all mine. My prize. "_I don't even know what it's made of."

"If I may, messere." Ah. Just interested in the sword itself, got it. Though, if he continues to treat her like she's some sort of noble lady, he'll get to touch her weapon anytime.

… _that doesn't sound dirty at all. _

Longer, heavier, with a hilt far thicker that her previous one, something she's still trying to get used to. Her hand wraps around it and the blade slides silently out. Carefully treated, color between silver and red, so sharp that she's certain he loses half his night sharpening it instead of sleeping. Or getting laid. No wonder he's always cranky. _And Dear Maker, no more time with the dwarves or. Bad things will happen_. Then there's hesitation, right before Diana allows Bozen to come near.

This is Cullen's. This is hers. It's sort of, well. _Ah man. _The reason behind her "borrowing" it makes the mage show the greatsword instead of allowing the male to hold it. It makes this sword private, not to be shared. Something of his and hers. It also makes her pull it back as soon as the merchant nods, his analysis complete.

"I see why he is curious." Glad someone does, she's blank and the kid doesn't speak right. "You have a nice red steel weapon there, messere. It just lacks special properties. My boy was offering his services, he was."

The other fella makes this maniacal grin which would make lesser women make a wide detour. She finds it cute, go figure. "Enchantment!"

"So, what you're saying is that this small guy." The very demented looking one who might just be Owain's offspring. "Is capable of changing or adding something worthwhile to my sword? Dwarves can do that?"

Denerim is right around the corner. Dwarves seem little creatures, mages are just lighter people in fabric any sword can pierce, humans are not that big of a deal when there's a giant dragon circling like some mutated vulture. They could matter more. Cullen's anger though, his face. She can picture his face, the way his jaw will hang, that sigh roughly translated into _dear Maker, why are you in my life_ and Gregoir's failed expression. It's just amusing. It makes her grin, just like Sandal and provides the handiest outlet for her boredom. Annoy others.

"My boy can." Aw, a doting father. She would be moved but it's too interested in something else to pay attention to the man.

Instead, she grabs Sandal's arm and drags him into the wagon where his dad keeps all the junk. The sword is stuck in front of him and she kneels like a kid before the turn of the New Year.

"Make it pink," Diana commands, hands clapping softly to dispel excitement. "Or orange, Maker, I like orange."

The blank look shifts into confusion. "Enchantment…?"

"I'm serious! Make it orange. Colorful. Rainbow would be overkill, I'd blind myself with it. Oh and icy. No, no, make it sparkly, ice doesn't really like me. I want something that screams female with bad taste."

"Enchantment!" Look at that. The dwarf looks almost insulted. Poppycock, she knows exactly what she's doing. Diana smiles again, this time almost like a normal person before patting his head, this overgrown two-legged Mabari with a thing for enchantments and no ability to string two words together. She might just adopt him.

"Don't be like that, you silly little dwarf," the healer appeases carelessly. "We're going for disguising and humiliation. Not for the most beautiful sword in Thedas."

He doesn't understand, he can't even if she explained. Diana says nothing, that light smirk tugging her lips upwards as Sandal starts working. It's fascinating. His hands move, tracing the metal with a control she wouldn't expect and small fireworks begin, a strong tang of something that seems magic but can't be. And Cullen would be right by her, _oh dear maker, Amell, what are you doing? Is that my..?_ He's not there except. He _is_. That's why she brought it.

There goes the 'not thinking about it' thing.

Though, really, it makes perfect sense. Diana is no warrior and knows it. The mere fact that she's trying to fight _–_ _never let it go, you don't let go of your magic, you don't let go of your blade – _the mere fact that she's not back in her cell for disobeying a direct command _– do that and you're dead. Pick the blade up and use your head. And I don't mean physically – _is because someone tried to help her_. _Again and again until there was a fighting chance.

_Conscience, thy name is Cullen._

"Oh and add one more thing for me?"

Sandal does his Irving impersonation again, as if she's about to fireball the latrines again. What is the deal with this dwarf, anyway? Retarded one moment, all no-nonsense the next. Maker, she's starting to get attached to him. Can she keep him?

"Please?"

He takes the sword back and waits.

* * *

"Dearest Maker, Diana! What have you done with yourself?" The mage walks with her head held high as she takes her place by Petra. Leading. Eh, leading. Irving looks very much shocked. Mages all looking at her, one of their supposed leaders. You see, there are ways to get back at people. If someone screws you over, you poke where it hurts. Like taking their avoid-getting-laid tool. If someone is getting you killed and glares refuse to work, you make sure its dignity isn't intact by the end of the day.

And she can just bet a chainmail covered, dark orange sword carrying girl isn't the prime example of anyone who leads anything more than a four year old. The sword seems to agree, small touches of lightning sparkling next to her ears, laughing while its new owner does the best to keep serious in front of Irving's flat displeasure.

"Shopping."

Diana remembers this gaze. It was the one right when she walked out of the repository, right at Jowan's left. And him saying that he was disappointed. She had been too. In him. In him who had been ready to condemn her best friend because of a bloody rumor, ready to turn him into a statue like Owain or the Archon's wife downstairs. Him for being ready to sacrifice them so readily. No. Not her favorite person, won't ever be.

When they're back at the Circle, her cell will wait. Not now, not where everyone can see the First Enchanter trying to scold her when she'll pay no mind to it. Irving sees this and walks away.

"Maker above, Diana," Petra mutters by her side. "You could have chosen a better time to redecorate. Or a better fashion sense. Good Andraste, you look." The politically correct word is _interesting_. Her colleague makes a polite pause, staring at her beautiful, beautiful sword with curiosity. "Are those runes? You got those added too, didn't you? What do they mean?"

"Nothing you'd care about." her voice just as high as the other woman's. It's true, she wouldn't.

Cullen would though. He will frown that stupid face, stare at the unknown runes and wonder why Gregoir couldn't have assigned some other Templar to look after her. And he will never ever use this blasted orange, feminine looking sword because she'll either be alive and won't let him have it or she'll be dead. And carrying this around will be too much even for his male pride. Even if it has a message he can't read, just for him. Even if it says something she won't ever speak out loud.

Thank you.

In very small handwritting. Right bellow '_Amell is always right, you damned Templar__.'_


	10. Interlude: he without her

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

**Author's note: **In the end because explaining here will be spoiling this.

**In this chapter: **Denial's an art, learn it. And don't let odd gene pools proliferate. It's just wrong.

* * *

Blissfully empty, that is how the Tower is described these days. Calm. Pacific. Peaceful. Cullen has taken to describe it as ghostly empty. The few mages who have been left behind – too young, too old or too injured – walk slowly in reconstruction, the apathy of the stones themselves sweeping through their bodies and filling up their bones. They all wait, hear with attention for news which persist in not arriving. Even Gregoir keeps to his office, walking solely to the door and back. Just in case the guards are sleeping and forgotten to warn about a horde of mages returning.

It's like the world hangs in the edge of the abyss and can or cannot collapse.

He doesn't worry. About Ferelden, yes, about the possibility of having to fight again in a near future, surely, but not over her. Not even when he notices how she had become as much his shield as he had been hers. An annoying talkative shield but an effective one. While Amell was in the Tower, he was surrounded by chatter, _help me with this, drag that, be my punching bag, will you_? Without her, he's stuck with bad memories and the ghosts of the Tower. Cullen doesn't worry or wonder nor does he wish her back. Everything is fine.

"Ser Cullen, do you require anything?" He's fine. So fine that even the Tranquil notices his obvious good mood and feels the need to enquire. Perfectly fine. _Little more denial there, we can turn it into an art._

Owain, the Templar catalogues him as, turning away from his less proper thoughts. A more than decent enchanter, one of the Tranquils that actually sought this process on his own volition. No changes to his tone, no expression on his stone-like features, no real interest behind his question bar a professional attitude. Another ghost to join to the many others wandering in the halls.

"No, thank you. Forgive me," Cullen answers automatically. "You can return to your tasks. I will not disturb you further."

Where though? Where to walk, what to do? There are few mages to guard in the Tower. There's an empty cell and an emptier Great Hall. There's no sword on his back and the stupid mage is off somewhere getting herself killed in a million different ways. He should have gone with her. Why didn't he go? Maker help him, he's not worried. _Everything. Is. Fine._

Gregoir will have news. Steeling himself with that vain hope, the Templar turns towards the doors, already fabricating a good lie – half-truth – for him to question the same thing every day. _Appalled I can do it, appalled he keeps buying them. Cousin twice removed in Denerim? Maker help me._

"Ser Cullen." The tranquil hasn't followed his indications and it is him who has spoken, persisting on the subject. So he _does_ look that desperate. Sudden urge to go up to the Harrowing Chamber and throw his armor out into the Lake? Growing steadily.

When Owain speaks, it's nothing about his apparent descent into a permanent moronic behavior. It's far worse.

"Mage Amell has left," he declares bluntly, like a hammer against an anvil. "Why?"

_Oh Maker, they come to me now looking for her? That's it. I'm just. Going up. _

That is the first reaction. But the second. The Templar stops himself from taking a step forward, focusing on the Tranquil who has yet to move, staring up at the larger man with an impassive kind of interest. Cullen would bet half a year's pay that this is not exactly normal behavior for his kind. More than that, were Owain anything else, he would have called this curiosity. As he is, as the question is asked in a formal clinical tone, like enquiring after an employee who forgot to show up for work, Cullen has no idea what's going on.

Right. A question was made.

"The Blight." It is an answer which encompasses everything. "The First Enchanter ordered all able mages to join the Grey Wardens in defense of Denerim."

"I see." Like he would see an Abomination, a book falling to the floor, the Archdemon itself dropping by. Tranquility is abominable and Cullen has spent too much time with Amell if he is able to understand this. "Is there a chance she may be killed?"

Clinical, impartial and rather stupid. It's a _battle _they speak of. A Maker forsaken battle in which he cannot participate. _Of course_ there is a chance for her to be killed. She's insanely bad at fighting without injuring herself, suicidal beyond belief. _Of course_ she's going to get killed, he's not there to shield her, _the Maker forsaken idiot_. Both him and her for thinking she could leave and be able to return.

"It is a large scale battle." His stomach tosses, turns and ties itself into knots. "We do not know what will happen. But I am sure she will return safely." Denial is an art, truly. Cullen will have it down before the month is out. What else can be done in the meanwhile? Run to Denerim? He lost his chance when the mages set out. Now, he would just reach bodies, rubble and failure.

"I wish she remains alive." Oh. He forgot about Owain, still staring at him, emotionless and that's kind of uncomfortable. Wonder if this is how a mage feels in relation to them. _And I'm doing it again._ "She is a good person. She does not treat us as objects even if she does not understand why we choose this." Quite frankly, even Cullen understands why she doesn't. Amell thrives in magic, loves it, allows it to define her. She'd choose death again and again over this.

_All right. So I know her. Not a crime._

This situation though, it is just weird. Owain is little more than a statue, standing whenever someone passes, repeating the same words over and over.

"Why are you asking about her?" Cullen's not. Cullen's a person. He's actually _curious_.

The other man shoots him a glance that is a mixture of recrimination and an assessment of his intelligence all at once – and that seems to rank rather low by the shake of his head. Again, can tranquils do _this_? _Good Maker._

"I saw her first when she arrived," he begins nevertheless, as he is a Tranquil and they always do what they are told. No change of tone, no expression, empty and blank. "She lacks mother's eyes, she has her hair. Her eyes are father's, her skin will tan on the sun, it will pain her in the first days before darkening. She is taller than mother but not more so than father. Mage Amell is named after Lady Diana Amell, her great-grandmother."

_What_?

Owain mercifully pauses to give him time to. Do nothing, nothing of this makes sense, information overloading his senses. There are enough clues but Andraste help him, the dots are practically doing a reel in his mind and dancing all over the place. "She does not know."

"No. She does not." This isn't a list of ingredients, mage. Cullen almost yells this, indignant on her behalf, all pretense of lack of care finally destroyed along with his denial. Owain tells him this when he should have told her. Should tell her. She would like to know. Right? That. Would she? Before she disappears?

The tranquil continues and there's no mercy anymore. "She is the last. Mother died after she was sent here. One of us remained in Kirkwall, a Senior Enchanter. Another was sent to Tevinter by father. He is a Magister. The last is in Antiva. I do not know her status. I was the only other sent here. No averages within us."

Averages. Non-magical folk. More of them. _More of them._

"Do not let her die." It sounds as a threat. "I cannot feel but I know what I am supposed to feel. I do not wish her dead. I do not wish her harmed. She is a good person. If I see her harmed, I know who to blame. I know what I am supposed to do."

Owain _Amell _nods, a mere gesture of his head, before returning to the entrance of the storage.

"Have a good day, Ser Cullen."

The Templar is left alone, standing in front of the storage facility and wondering what to do about this. Kill the tranquil? That'd be useless and get him jailed. Tell the First Enchanter? Not possible. Amell? Right, getting herself killed. She would also kill him if she knew about this. There's always Gregoir, he wouldn't mind one less mage around, would he?

_Knight-Commander, if I may bother. I have just been threatened with death by Owain in case Diana Amell doesn't return unharmed. What should I do?_

_Desist of spirits, Templar. And do not come to me when drunk. I will not have you set a bad example in my Tower._

The only thing he can think of is how he was just threatened by a Tranquil and there are more of _them_. While he's on the subject. If they are anything like her, how is Thedas still standing?

If the walls could listen to his mental conversation, Cullen is sure they would be toppling over in laughter.

Especially since she won the freaking bet.

* * *

**Author's note: **Okay so. Weird, I know. But follow me here. Leandra says about the Warden!Amell 'One of my cousin's children became the Warden and saved us all'. Children, more than one. And Bethany says 'Mother saw her cousin lose so many children to the Circle'. So, definitely, she didn't have just one or two. So I thought, why the hell not? The bet is referred in chapter 8. That said, good vacations, guys, see you when I get back. Hope you enjoyed this so far. And thank you to everyone who keeps reviewing and keeping my interest into writing this piece. You truly help :)


	11. Interlude: she with him

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

**Author's note: **I am sure this chapter could be better but I swear to God, I'm sick of re-reading and rewriting it in order to try and make it more decent. Just one more interlude to go. And I'm back :)

**In this chapter: **Well damn. He has balls after all.

* * *

**011.**

Whoever went around singing praises of a battlefield had obviously been hit very hard on the head several thousand times before, maybe, being broken to chips by an Ogre. Or trampled around by a herd of High Dragons. Diana needs only a grand total of one minute in Denerim to understand this. That and how the issues at the Circle managed to prepare a toenail of her body for something like this.

It's not the easiest thing for a healer to face. She is used to close wounds not open them on things which come out of her worst nightmares. But the mage stomachs it, since the option to run all the way back to the Tower is firmly out of the board. Whenever the urge to throw up rears its head, every bloody time the Wardens call upon their meager force, Diana grips her sword tightly enough for the leather to dig against her palms because there is no belt to clutch instead. Runs ahead since there is no back to shield her from demons and bodies. More importantly, she's not really going to make anyone unhappy unless she returns breathing. Hence she runs into the fray with everyone else, gulping her fear down together with ash and blood and disgust. Mercifully, everything in her mind turns into jumbled pictures and tiredness.

Petra's bloodied skin's important, she has to heal it, the other girl keeps her back protected. Threaten Jowan, the bastard nearly got her killed, that was good too. Insult the Wardens – _mentally_ – every time they call for them to fight, perfection. It's all she needs to know until Petra halts her casting midspell as the Hurlock she is about to smack around turns tail and flees like Wynne's on a rampage and about to blame him from everything wrong from Ferelden to the Free Marches.

The pair stops, looks at each other, faces the rest of the group rather stupidly and waits until someone reaches the obvious conclusion.

They apparently won.

That's a shocker.

The first words are the important ones, repeated like a mantra and sung all around as the mages hug each other in a very juvenile display of happiness. Diana should join. She is aware she should. Or, at least, feel a little happier. Problem's that the last genlock she skewered managed to get a big chunk of her hair out before dying and she's a little worried over the reflection of the half-matured man a puddle's reflecting to her. Everyone else notices and represses any possible affection towards her – _might be the glare, she doesn't bother to ask_ – remaining in a quiet respectful mourning tone nicely adaptable to a funeral whenever in her vicinity. She likes using her sword a little too much, they also noticed, the smart, very smart fools.

_Does Gregoir even know_, it had been inquired when she was supposedly out of earshot, _is this even safe?_

Safe as long as the fools don't tell him and these won't. Explanation's simple. Cleaved genlock. She laughed. They called her crazy. She laughed more. Ta-da. It's called instant secret.

The memory still makes her snicker as Diana abandons their group for the nearest half-destroyed wall. Legs hurt, arms hurt and everything in between aches. There is a lot of stuff Morrigan forgot to add to her lessons, her muscles complain loudly as she sits, heavy sword resting at her back, orange sparkling away in happiness at her pain. Eh. Her sword's sadistic. Who would have thought?

It doesn't bother her. Nothing can, really. She'll get to go back, go home, be safe again. Gregoir's going to be so glad, all his new recruits will be crying in agony for weeks. Her snickers turn more constant as she watches the little magical ants she calls companions scurry around, distracting herself with small mental not-so-flattering comments as their singing continues. It's exactly where and when Jowan finds her.

"Hey."

_Hey. Hey?_ That's the absolute best he can come up with?_ And how in the Maker's inexistent toes is he out of the Warden's skirts? _Diana's mental voice snipes as its owner ignores it, opting to peek underneath her destroyed hair to the sky. Nope. No Maker. No flying pigs or darkspawn in dresses either. Just Jowan, trembling like he saw her threaten – _warn forcibly_ – the rest of the mage company into silence about her sword and holding to what seems all his guts – or balls – to keep himself from bolting out. _He has those, Maker, amazing things all around today._

He looks tired too, dark lines under his eyes and this shadow over his every gesture. She's not sorry for him or anything but still. Jackass probably kills genlocks by sniffling at them.

Diana doesn't reply to him but doesn't ignore him completely either, body shifting grudgingly so he can sit by her side. It's taken slowly, just in case she has booby-trapped the whole thing. _What an idiot_, her little voice continues snidely, _I'm fast but not that fast_.

Things have really changed. A year before, Diana would have been able to picture this scene. Sky above them, sitting by a hurlock's head, half covered in blood and smelling like several Templars after training. The eeriest thing though is how silent both are. They never were when together. Even in the library they spoke, exchanging ideas underneath the tables, sending notes in Irving's class as the man had the hearing of a Mabari and could always find them out.

"Right. Anyway," Jowan starts slowly, fingers moving up and down on his new gleaming staff as if to keep himself occupied. A really nice shiny staff. _Guilt-trip him into giving that up, yes, no, yes?_ "Do you still want to kill me?"

Kill, maybe no. If he had used the word hurt instead, now that'd be a whole different bucket of worms. "Slight compulsion for that. I can use a sword now."

"I noticed." His voice shakes momentarily, his eyes rolling over her weapon's smooth surface. Attaboy. There had to be some common sense left after Lily's breasts stabbed it. Between the both of them, some had to remain and Maker knows hers ended the second she started looking for Templars voluntarily. "It's very big. Very sharp looking. Very. Colorful. It's just a minor compulsion? Right?"

As minor as the Tower's small but it's still much better than the original feeling. It involved throwing him off said Tower into sharp objects half submerged in alcohol-filled containers.

"Eh," she replies instead. "Just killed a bunch of darkspawn. Does wonders for my violent instincts."

"Shame we didn't know that before, huh?" Jowan tries to joke and one of his very sharp elbows tries to dig into her stomach only to find a whole bunch of metal plates in its way. A wince replaces all laughter.

There's no need to look to know he's deflating like ice on summer but Diana turns her head anyway, glare between half destroyed hair showing how well both comment and gesture sat.

_Yeah. No. Not that comfortable, buddy. This isn't the Tower anymore._

"Sorry."_ Not going to work_. "Forgot." _As usual_. "Maybe you can join the Wardens? They would let you out of the Tower and you could go anywhere you'd like. Only." That's when Jowan hesitates and her hatred turns suicidal. Maker damnit, it was always the same thing. Jowan being an idiot, constantly acting first and thinking later. Always with good intentions but with the worst results in Thedas. His reaction tells her the freedom she would buy would come at a high cost. Which leads to wonder what has been done to her friend. Which leads to.

To too much thinking when there's a hurlock's head staring at her. Besides, she doesn't want to leave the Tower, right? It's her home. She has no other, wants no other. A cell-painted home but home nevertheless. Good Maker, how does the thing keep staring when dead and bodiless?

"Wouldn't be able to kill you if I did. Bet it's against the regulations." And this, fighting like a crazed dragon, he would have her doing this every day? "This common to you?"

The Hurlock keeps staring, bothersome, disgusting and she can't draw her eyes away from it. Not until Jowan stands and swings his staff against it.

It hits Keili.

Diana hates him a little bit less for that.

"Answer the question, you moron," she persists, her elbow mimicking the movement he had tried early. The more Jowan delays, the more he looks away, the more she knows he's in trouble. Maker, how had the idiot managed to become a blood mage without her noticing?

"It's not as bad as it seems." It's his reluctant answer.

Not as bad? _Not as bad? _Not as bad is getting stuck with inventory for twenty years. Not as bad is having to clean the lake from every weed and strange object thrown in. Not that bad is to turn homosexual with a crush on Gregoir. Wait, no, that'd be pretty bad. But this? Living with blood every day, ripping things apart every single day, this is in a whole new scale.

"It's not," Jowan continues, thankfully vanishing the mental image of him and _moving along_. "Being a Warden isn't that bad. We watch each other's backs, we got food on the table. When there's one, at least. What we do means something in the large scheme of things. And I can see the sky all the time, I like that."

"It's a blue ceiling." Better than being headless, she can mentally agree and still grumble. "What's so likeable about that?"

That time in the chapel hadn't been the first time Jowan had spoken about freedom, only the most desperate. Now, looking at his face, pale and hardened, her little chick who threw itself head first from the nest, Diana can see he really enjoys this and she has no bloody idea why. _Yeah. I raised a flipping idiot. _It's like with Lily. Why would he like her, her of all people, her when he could have one of _their_ kind? It takes Diana back to the exactly why she's angry at him, why she wants him to be unhappy and feel guilty and apologize a couple thousand times.

"You left me behind." He hurt her.

Hardened or not, his features change into those she knows best, enough guilt to fill the entire city. "You wouldn't want to come anyway. Even if I dragged you out."

"Don't come and tell me you thought that while redecorating the walls. And the floors. And _me_. You offered her to come, not me. You hurt_ me_." Her voice turns louder, draws the attention of most nearby but Diana can't help it. This isn't jealousy. Only it kind of is. You don't leave your sister behind for the first skirt you manage to get under. You just don't. She wouldn't have. And her wound opens, bleeds and stings all over as if someone is forcing it to widen with each passing moment. "Flipping moron. They kept me inside a cell for months. Three walls and three hundred slabs. With Templars and no books and stuck with threats all the freaking time and wondering if I was going to get killed that day or the next. You dumbass. Maker-forsaken moron. Mule. Idiot. …"

Maker above, her insults are a ridiculously short list.

"You need to expand those. How about." Jowan takes a deep breath, coming closer and finally managing to ignore her sword to look at her face. Maker, she saw this expression so many times. _Diana, I might have destroyed your book. Diana, the first enchanter's sort of looking for me. Diana, sorry about your report, it kind of burned. Forgive me._ "I acted like a jackass. A selfish jackass. I shouldn't have touched blood magic. I shouldn't have kept it from you. I should have brought you with me, phylactery be damned. It was unfair. And I didn't want to hurt you. I'm sorry."

And she always forgave. Inside the Tower's walls they had no one else, just them. Didn't matter where they came from, they were mages and mages were as much family as they would ever had. _Buy me another. What did you do this time? You're so writing it for me, idiot. Wait. No, I want to pass the stupid subject._ Even with her recent lunacy, that part of her didn't change.

He should make offers to Andraste for that.

"Damn right." Her voice trembles and she feels incredibly stupid for it. "You're an ass."

His arm slips around her shoulders, uncaring of her borrowed armor, uncaring of the sword sparkling on her back, of the blood covering them both or the destruction all around them. Hers snakes to hold his waist as her head moves to cover his shoulder in very bloody ruined hair.

"I really am sorry," _for being a blood mage, for leaving you behind, for almost getting you killed._ "I was a bit selfish."

"A bit, he says." Her snort is almost amused. "I want a new armor, robbed this one from a dead guy."

"Silverite'd keep you safer, I'll ask the Commander. I'm sorry?"

Diana holds more tightly and swears never to tell him, never ever tell him how happy she is in that corner, knowing her almost-but-not-quite brother's alive, even if not completely well – she's totally going to make him spit out those secretive glances and rumors, warden secrets be damned – with no Templars except the one she carries around in metal form.

Leverage. Don't give it, don't give it up.

"One step closer, my man," the mage whispers into his robe. "One step closer."

The moment extends, their little trace of peace in the middle of the chaos which has taken over Denerim. Diana almost forgets there are a couple of broken mail chains digging painfully into her ribs. Peace. Until.

"That sword's really ugly, Diana."

"It can still stab you."

"Point taken."

"Not yet, it hasn't been."

Everything gets back to normal.

"Have I said I'm sorry?"

"Twenty-one and counting since the alley. You're one thousand, nine-hundred and seventy nine behind. Keep going."


	12. Interlude: he with her

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

**Author's note: **No more interludes, yay! .. don't mind me. This chapter took forever to write for whatever reason so I'm just pleased it stopped fighting me. Hopefully you'll like it.

**In this chapter: **To run away or not to run away, she poses the question.

* * *

**012.**

"So has anyone actually observed mages' blood to see if their ability is connected to some unknown substance? I mean, there must be a reason why some people have them and others don't. And why siblings can be born and without. Perhaps I should ask. Would anyone let me do that?"

The dwarf talks a mile per minute, almost never breathing, hidden behind a pile of books and more notes than the ones written by half the apprentices in the Tower. Her prattle is never-ending, questions over questions, doubts over doubts, his migraine steady, pulsing and endless. Cullen has never seen anyone who can keep that going for so long bar Amell and not even she has this type of passion when speaking of magic. He thinks. Probably wouldn't be that inclined to speak about it to the person who curses her for enjoying it in the first place. Basic logic.

"No," he replies for what seems the thousandth time. "While you aren't capable of magic, using blood for any purpose wouldn't be accepted. In case you have doubts, you should speak to the Knight-Commander, not to me, girl."

The Maker has a sense of humor. He takes Amell away from him – _them, away from them_ – but makes sure to leave something so close to the mage that Cullen can almost close his eyes and _pretend_. Which isn't ridiculous at all, Andraste help him. He sounds like a princess looked in a tower waiting for a knight in golden armor.

Because comparing himself to a woman makes everything better.

"The Knight-Commander doesn't like me much." _No one does._ Dagna shuffles a little on her raised seat, the very tip of her red hair barely above the tower of books she hides behind. "The mages think I'm a bit off. You're the only one who doesn't look at me weird."

It's called lots of practice, he wants to say. Only he doesn't. Like Diana, Dagna is persistently annoying, babbling to everyone in a five mile radius and following _him_ around like a puppy. Unlike her, the dwarf is innocent and would get hurt. Cullen's not uselessly cruel.

He explained to her, or tried, that his knowledge of the arcane is close to useless but still she asks. Wonders like a child. Connects the dots and distracts him all the time; questions flowing one after the other as if the constant chatter will make his body develop magic from day to night. The idea of her injecting lyrium on his veins as experiment isn't completely out of the question.

Yes. His door remains locked at night.

"Then the other mages," Cullen continues. "They might complain or try to ignore you but."

Only her answer is too sensible for such an airhead.

"They're busy and you're not," she says with a simplicity that's staggering, agile hands organizing her notes with sharp, nonsensical gestures. Lovely, she thinks he's the useless bum of the place. "Besides, how are you supposed to guard something you don't understand? You'll get caught by surprise every time. This way we both win, don't you see?"

Cullen opens his mouth to retort how the Fade is so beyond his understanding, how he knows nothing of the Arcane and wishes to know even less, how he'll turn old, grey and decaying before Amell chooses to be sane and make any kind of sense he can get. Only Dagna's sensible. That's the difference between the two women. With a sigh, he finds himself sitting in front of the dwarf, standing guard to someone who is a demon by herself.

"Alright." The pencil she has been using till that point is stuck behind her ear and one of her notes is raised to eye level. "I had more questions." It is a very big note. And it contains a _very_ long list of questions, he can't help but notice.

Gregoir needs to be told how Templars cannot be without work for long. Especially him. He needs to be sent somewhere away where there's a pile of work to be done and no dwarves with inane questions he'll have no reply to anyway.

Despairingly, he throws himself into a mental rundown of every reason which might take him away from there only his mind fails him and Dagna's lips are beginning to move.

"Ser Cullen?" A female voice cuts before anything can be said, reducing even the constant chatterbox into silence.

_Oh thank you, Maker_.

There's a flash of blonde hair covered by a tiara, silver armor and a sword which is far more beautiful than the one he bothers to carry in replacement of his own. Middle aged, stern features, blue eyes which are enough to reduce lesser men to forget to mention anything which might upset their owner. Knight-Commander Meredith of Kirkwall.

Forget the gratitude. The Maker probably hates him.

"Ser Cullen, isn't it? I have heard good things of you." From whom, a jester? And, while he's on the fantastic subject, about what? His inability to be a proper Templar? His reliance on a good blade and a good mage healer? His lack of trust in – or fear, definitely fear of tranquil? "The Commander believes you show promise. Perhaps outside this Circle. I am sure memories connected with this place are not pleasant. I respect your plight."

Gregoir said that. _Huhuh_. Cullen has a hard time his Commander said anything of the sort while sober. He, of all people, evaluates everyone around him with falcon's eyes, sees every time one of his Templars are straying. Thomas, older than him by little, being sent away for being considered far too distracted to keep watch. John and Mark. Anthony. Andraste strike him if Cullen's not somewhere on the top of the man's list.

If it is a plan to get rid of him – or, as the older man would say, _save him_ – it is stupidly transparent. Worse only Irving's little plan to make Wynne stick around instead of hauling her bones through half the country.

"Thank you, Knight-Commander." He doesn't know when he stands. At some point, the chair was pushed to the side and he's bowing his head to his superior, watching how she smiles just barely. "Will you stay long?"

"Enough." As informative as Gregoir himself. It might just be something taught to Knight-Commanders before they take up the mantle.

Meredith makes no movement to sit by them – though he does see her eyes shifting with an appraising look that's everything but kind in the direction of the dwarf. Like a merchant on a wares' sell. And back again to him. He feels like he is back in the Chantry, watching as the Mothers evaluate his progress with cautious eyes and even scarier pens against paper.

Her hand rests against the chair he just vacated, gauntleted fingers tightened against the smooth wood.

"We had a deep loss of lives in Kirkwall over the past years," a female voice which carries _sadness_, the pain of a superior who lost more than a member to a unit. It doesn't show on her face but it sounds clear as a bell on her words. "Though the same has taken place here, your loss in mages was far greater. I come for those Templars who can be spared to replenish our numbers."

Her stare becomes sharper, keener and the point is driven home like a battering ram against a Castle's walls.

"Think about it, Ser Cullen."

Is there anything to think? Cullen lowers his head in reply, as she walks away, presumably to speak to another companion. To leave Ferelden? He likes Ferelden. He hates the Tower though. Or does he hate just what happened inside those walls? That sounds. Migraine worthy. The Templar falls back into his chair, two fingers pressuring the side of his forehead before the headache Dagna has worked on achieves mind-shattering levels.

"She is… she sounds odd." The dwarf comments, almost huddled in her chair with her books as a barrier.

That is just wrong. "Strong," he corrects sharply. _Offended_. "She has to be. She is the Knight-Commander."

"No. That's not it." The red head shakes from side to side, a nail carelessly held between sharp teeth. "Gregoir's harsh but not like that. She's. _Odd_. Like she'll do something bloody without thinking a lot about it."

"Yet you don't seem that scared."

Dagna shrugs, apparently not that disturbed. "I'm a dwarf. I saw people fighting singing and drunk all the time. Or singing drunkenly while stumbling around with an axe and butchering things on their way. Just go with me. That woman's scary and not in the good way." A new book is opened – one he recognizes to be the Chant of Light – and she submerges herself in ignoring the Templar. And said Templar tries to disregard the certainty in her voice when speaking of the matter. "Are you going away?"

There is no reply for her. Cullen is too busy watching the back of the human who stops to speak with one of the other Templars, noticing the quiet confidence and sheer strictness of her character. There is no way he can see what Dagna does. For him, Meredith is a perfect Templar. Unattached. Just. Fair. All that he had dreamed once he thought first to take his vows.

"**And t**he corrupt **at least have fun while **the **not **wicked, **well, those get stuck behind bars, great logic."**

"_What_?"

The dwarf blinks, halting her oral reading and note taking at the same time, apparently having desisted in getting any kind of answer for him.

"What what?"

A book lies innocently on her hands, looking for the entire world as something completely normal and _boring_. Dagna holds it like Cullen's just about to jump forward and rip her treasure away. He isn't. He feels he should do so but isn't.

"Continue reading," he manages to choke out because he listened wrong and all the thoughts about his possible departure have taken a direct hit into non-existence. He listened wrong. That's all there is to it. He listened to her _wrong_ even though the words which he thinks he heard are too familiar. Maker help him. He can't feel like laughing. That would be blasphemy.

A split second is spent in silence as the girl stares at him up and down – more up than anything else – before she rests the book on the table and resumes her study, not without mumbling against inane humans and making sure he hears every word.

"All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands," she begins and every word is correct up till that point. "From the **lowest** **mages t**o the highest kings. **Though t**hose who bring harm** to the first without provocation** **should be **hated and accursed by the Maker** but he's currently in a temper tantrum, come back later**." Until, of course, she finishes the sentence of some other book which can't be the Chant. He checks, literally jumping from his seat and making a grab for the innocent looking red book.

It is the Chant of Light, familiar as the air he breathes. It's even more familiar, seen every day Cullen went upstairs through a dark hallway, turned left and saw bars, bars hiding a dirty blonde haired figure, scribbling absently into stained pages.

The whole text is filled with scratches, dates, added notes that make choke and his jaw hang rather obviously.

Cullen admits that everything in him – the Templar especially – wants to burn that book and slap its owner into a Chantry and a confessionary as soon as humanly possible. And yet. And yet, he remembers Meredith's words about him and how false they are, how he isn't anything of what she thinks he is and how the Chant isn't read as it should be either. Maker, what a Templar he makes nowadays. All that makes him laugh, relate to the words that are just like his sort of slight friend.

There's a moment only broken by his quiet laughter, shaking shoulders while he stares at the unknown handwriting; round, graceful and neat, all that Amell isn't. It's hers. He knows it's hers.

"What did she write on the canticle of transfiguration?" Cullen asks while returning the book. Before Dagna goes back into librarian coma and tackles him to the ground to retrieve it.

"Magic exists to serve man** and never to rule over him which brings us to the question as to why we we're not allowed to do either. Wait. Forget it, too much trouble." **The only sound in the library is the steady turn of pages in dwarf's hands and then her childish voice. "They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones **instead of** **just cruel people because this gives it more oomph** and they shall find no rest in this world or the next. **Though someone should** **tell that to the guys in Tevinter. They look mighty happy."**

"Who wrote this?" Dagna asks, turning the well-worn pages back and forth. "The notes, I mean. They were added to the original text."

Someone insane. Someone confusing. Someone he can confess to miss, to himself and in silence where none would hear. He misses her.

"A friend," the words spill from his lips without his brain's consent. Before he can correct himself – lie to himself – he's already continuing. "She probably added more stupidity. I will give you the original one once you're done with that. Chances are, that will make you laugh far more."

It's there and then that Cullen understands he cannot stay in the Tower anymore.

Without bothering to explain anything to Dagna, he stands from the chair and takes after Meredith. Unfortunately, while doing so, he forgets to replace the dwarf's copy of the Chant of Light.

It earns her a lifetime ban of the Chantry after her first mass.


	13. She is welcomed

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

**Author's note: **This chapter took _forever_ to get out. So much that I had no clue it made sense. So a big thank you to _ChampionTheWonderSnail_ because she beta-ed this whole thing properly and bashed typos and run-on sentences to oblivion~ And, please, do say what you think about this drivel, yes?

**In this chapter: **First say welcome, then say how deep the hole you're in is :)

* * *

**013.**

Returning to the Tower is weird. It feels like homecoming, returning to a place that she has had difficulty in calling home for the best part of her twenty something years.

The Warden had decided they shouldn't walk the whole way back and so they had been provided with horses. Only the combination of that beast with her sparkling new armor – thanks to Jowan and his amazing groveling slash pleading skills and the Warden's pretty big pockets – had left her with bruises in places best left unnamed. Though they did rhyme nicely with bass, pass and class. Rubbing said part might be incredibly degrading – and useless since she _is _covered in armor – but rub she does, even as she jumps down from the four legged demon.

Who persists in following and tries to eat her hair. Good Maker, she only attracts idiots.

Passing through the front doors is even odder. Everyone waits for them. The few mages who were left behind gather, smiling and she gets it; who wouldn't be smiling after staying behind and not being killed? Yeah. She thinks so too. They welcome them though, speak of a banquet and her annoyance at their shameless happiness is steadily stabbed away. Especially when she is told she finally has a room. A _room_. Not a cell, not a white-padded compartment, not a metal bar in sight.

It's completely impossible for her to hide her grin as she crosses the larger room into the wooden delimited space which is _hers_ and _hers_ alone. It's big. It has a closet and a small bedside table and Fade, enough space to drag a guy in even. _Not that I would, not at all, First Enchanter._ Maybe she should have waited for him to leave before jumping onto the bed. And tried not to giggle. Definitely forgone the giggling part.

It doesn't matter though. As soon as Irving is gone – looking every inch the disapproving grandfather who just discovered his over eighteen year old girl has breasts and knows how to use them, go figure – Diana rids herself of every piece of her beloved armor and slips right back into a new pair of robes. It is comfortable; more like homecoming than entering the Tower. For the first time since, well, _ever_, Diana really feels like the Harrowed mage she is. And not like the blood-mage-helping-and-overall-prisoner Jowan made her into.

Tentative forgiveness. Got to love it.

"Diana, please stop jumping on your bed."

'_Your bed'_. How amazing are those words? Diana waves carelessly to her neighbor – Petra, thank the Maker, she'd die if she had to bunk with Irving or...Or…Good Maker, not Sweeney – but listens to little. Her body seems to be made of pure energy; pushing and prodding her to move even as half her bones complain over the beast's damage. She's home. And she's just missing one little thing to make it just right. A final hop and the mage is up and running outside, through the halls without pausing for conscious thought.

The healer asks no one for her destination. She knows the little bastard, up till the point where he's predictable. That and, she adds reasonably for once, they're in a Tower. As long as she keeps running round and upwards while muttering his name it's highly probable that she'll smack right into the guy at some point. It's not necessary though.

During late afternoon, there are hardly any people in the Chantry. The afternoon mass is already over and the one just before bedtime – because all you need to end your day perfectly is a good, healthy dose of hypocrisy – is still a little over two hours away. He likes this hour. It's quiet; only him and the Maker and perhaps her, bothering for an extra lesson because dying would really suck.

Naturally, she feels like leaping forward and disturbing his contemplation. She just doesn't listen that impulse for once. There will be enough time to torture the poor bastard. Weaving through the benches, she hops carefully until she's slipping right by his side. He hasn't changed. His head is bowed, fingers tightly entwined and forehead nicely plastered to his skin. He's even mumbling like a good little penitent Andrastian. Why though? What would be so bad that it would make him wish to repent?

Diana just has no clue. Templars don't go '_please, forgive my wanting to kill some random mage'_ to the Maker. It'd be counterproductive.

Still, Cullen is a Templar and she can almost believe he has faith in this drivel. That's exactly why she waits until he stops mumbling, until he notices she's been elbowing him for the past ten minutes and is waiting for him to notice she's much more important than some statue standing around and a Maker who is definitely not paying attention. Not as she is. Eventually, he does open his eyes, but instead of being amazed by her presence, he _stares._

"See?" The mage leans forward, her smile steady and careless. "I went, I saw, I conquered, I totally slashed things around."

He looks at her like he doesn't believe she's there. His blue eyes are widened - impossibly so - his jaw's trying very hard to meet the floor. He doesn't move, doesn't breathe – wait, he _isn't_ breathing. A Blight has just been ended and Diana has survived a three day ride on a big long legged beast. There's no way she's going to get killed now because she's allowed Gregoir's pet Templar to die of self-asphyxiation.

"Commander?" Diana calls slowly, a hand already moving in the most basic healing spell she knows, the other waving right in front of his face. "All well up there?"

"You're here," he whispers slowly.

Nicely seen. She would have never noticed it.

"You're alive."

Doesn't look happy about it either. That'd be a crime. It's so much like him that Diana finds herself grinning instead of feeling like introducing him to the nearest wall. Cullen doesn't. He looks serious and _oh good grief_. Obviously, the mage won't get a proper greeting unless she takes the lead. In between his bouts of stupidity, Diana moves, not quite amused but close enough.

Even more silence and it's like she's messing with a statue.

"Are you _hugging _me?"

Her arms loosely around his chest, her stupid – wow, what in the world…? – head banging on his shoulder and his face smacked not one feet away. What _would_ it be?

"Yes." _Amazing deduction skills, Templar._

"…" His mouth opens and closes like a fish. Rather unattractively, in her modest opinion.

"Maker above, Commander. This is what normal people do when a person comes alive from certain death. Close that mouth, don't speak of it, don't think of it. You'll feel much better. Got it?"

Diana doesn't hug people often. She hugs Templars even less but he did need it. What is she supposed to do? Deny him his much needed comfort? Of course not. She is a good person and she's only thinking about his wellbeing (insert totally believable feelings right here). With that in mind she tries to finds a place less uncomfortable on that stupid armor of his and allows him to mutter incoherently somewhere above her as an arm tentatively snakes around her shoulders.

That's a good boy.

"Enchanter Amell. Welcome back."

There's the sound of an anvil falling to the floor. Or an axe against her neck, it can be both.

Cullen jumps back so quickly that it is a wonder she doesn't get smacked by the pile of armor Templars are in love with. Maker knows why though. It's not Gregoir or Irving. It's just Owain, his pleasant face polite and impassive as always, his robes perfectly pressed and cared for. She likes the guy. Doesn't get why he wanted to become a walking statue but who is she to say it's scary? Maybe there is something to seeing the world in black and white.

Wait. _Enchanter_? Who in the Maker's name's an _Enchanter_?

"Mage," she corrects tersely, just in case Irving had lost his good sense to some darkspawn demon. "Owain. You look good. What are you doing around here?" He looks the same as ever but then again; _tranquility_. She stopped expecting more a couple of minutes after he woke up from whatever had been done to him.

Owain looks at her for a moment then at Cullen, up and down and wow, isn't that slightly unnerving.

"Enchanter," the Tranquil repeats, still staring at the Templar as if her question meant nothing. Not just staring but Staring, capital letters and all. "Ser Cullen."

What did Cullen do to Owain while she was out? Stabbed his kitten or ran his puppy over with an apprentice?

"I am very sure you are not supposed to fraternize with mages, Ser," Owain continues blandly and, if Tranquil glares (does that even exist?) could kill, the Templar would be dead and ashes by then. "You might have forgotten in the excitement of these last days. And this is the Chantry; there is no need to desecrate it."

Translation. Hands off and leave now.

Diana looks from Tranquil to Templar but both men look quite happy in ignoring her presence. Which is rather annoying. Is it just her or is Owain threatening them? Or Cullen. Just what?

The other mage turns tail and leaves before she can voice those particular words.

"Crap."

"Crap?" Diana had even forgotten Cullen had a voice. "That's all you have to say?"

"Crap, I could say," she starts again. "We are so doomed and Gregoir's going to kill us. Only he might be sadistic so, instead, you'll be stuck in a cell and I'll be happily magically lobotomized into a walking corpse. More descriptive but sounds a little too ominous for my tastes."

"I'll take your first attempt," Cullen visible winces, towering over her as he stands. His eyes never leave the spot where the Tranquil has disappeared into. "Really think he'll tell Gregoir?"

It is hard to say. Owain is a mage, never mind the statue tendencies. And he did like her – had liked her? - once upon a time, when they had first met and before he had asked to become Tranquil. He always treated her right, never argued with her when she asked for stuff, except for the fire rod. He had probably wondered if it was wise to give her something capable of burning the Tower to the ground. All in all, he wouldn't do something to reduce her to, well, _him_.

Even if his look was the closest thing to a _glare_ the mage has ever seen on him.

"So," Diana attempts a grin and fails miserably. "How many letters of censorship now? I'm probably at something like ten."

The Templar's jaw is finally closed and the teeth grind so strongly against each other that it's a wonder they aren't breaking. "Two."

_Huh. _

"I was joking."

Cullen turns a little, his head just barely above his shoulder with a most peculiar smile. Exasperated and irritated all at once.

"I wasn't."

_Well. Crap._


	14. He is expelled

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

**Author's note: **Good god, why so hard to get this out? Why? :( And guys? For one of my stories with most hits, I hear surprisingly little from people. Review a girl out, yes?

**In this chapter: **Yeah, clue to men everywhere. _Never_ hide stuff from women. Especially magic-loaded ones.

**xxxXXXxxx**

Templars are brave. They struggle through hardships back and forth, battle abominations, demons and such other dangerous things all with a sole word of the Knight-Commander. They are good people. They are strong. They don't flee from magic. And Cullen is a Templar. As such, he is all of those things and he flees from none. He was, in fact, merely avoiding Amell like she was a tainted Magister herself.

In truth, Cullen had been lucky to have lasted that long. A month of secrecy was uncanny in the Tower, even one who had considerably less people than before the event, and he had managed it. Every trace of paperwork had either been burned or sent directly to Greagoir, every pack of baggage slowly shipped off to the destination under the guise of Circle material. It wasn't like he is afraid or anything, it is merely that… who is he kidding? Amell was a scary bitch without the sword; with it, she is the personification of a hurricane composed by broken glass.

It is somewhat odd to presume the mage wouldn't want him to go but he feels safe to assume so. As an Enchanter, her responsibilities had actually turned real. Half the day she spent running back and forth, patting away apprentices and trying not to explode things as Irving gave her permission to experiment. The other half was spent complaining, prodding him for attention or forcing him around as a pack mule.

He preferred when she hated his guts. Being her friend is definitely more tiresome than being her guard.

"Ah. Cullen." Formalities since his attack on her don't exist, never mind that he didn't do it by his own choice. "There you are."

Enchanter or not, Diana is what she had always been as an apprentice. Clad in mage robes – red now replacing mustard yellow – a metal staff peaking above her shoulder, a little lost between the blonde hair which escapes from the tight bun. The main difference resides in how easily she slips unnoticed to the Templar floor, paying little to no attention to those who stare at her as she passes; if only because mages avoid that place like a Templar needs solely an ominous dark corner to grip a blade.

The enchantment is long gone though and he knows the person underneath that blonde hair.

An Archdemon in tanned skin and braids, that's what she is.

The woman is definitely busy, her hands carrying a pile of vellums that seems never-ending, her words mumbled likely because she carries a feather between her teeth. From where he stands, he can see the small tilt of her eyebrow, probably wondering why he's staring at her like she's about to fireball the interior. "Cam I orc ere?"

"For those of us who don't speak your language?"

Tired of waiting for permission, Diana invades his room, spiting the quill onto his desk – _he really liked her once? There's definitely no account for his bad taste _– before dumping all the vellums and climbing onto his chair. Like the whole place is hers, her legs are crossed, robe barely covering her skin. And he waits, not so patiently, for her to stop the invading and get to explaining while trying very hard not to stare at the hem of her robe that persists in sticking to her knees. At the hem. Just at the hem. Not a peep down, not an inch.

Maker, when did she get that tanned?

"I'm going to work here for a while," the mage informs bluntly, forgoing the need for additional questions or mental arguments. Then again, she's already sitting and taking over, why would she bother with such things? She was always an apologist of the lazier pattern of action. "Irving's getting the new ones introduced to the place and I don't need to sleep any more than absolutely necessary. Have you ever tried working with his voice droning on and on and on. Maker help me, it's mind-numbing. But you wouldn't know. Templars don't work. They stand around and look pretty."

The conversation sounds so innocent, so rambled and normal. Cullen doesn't understand why he's rooted to his spot, skin tingling while he waits for a bomb to explode. Half her words simply don't filter their way in. Only the presence of her staff and the necessity for a Smite tingling at his fingertips.

"Pretty?"

"Shiny armors and skirts, Commander," Diana develops, quill back between her teeth. "Whoever invented that made sure you'll never be taken seriously without Holy Smites being thrown around."

An ink bottle is carefully taken from one of her many pockets and placed on the available surface before deft fingers open a nearby vellum. There is a careful handwriting in them, round letters perfectly aligned in the coarse paper. He can't exactly see what is the subject they address but it is likely related to the studies of the taint she is attempting, exchanging notes constantly with some crazy mage to the north which, supposedly, is connected to the Wardens. He doesn't know details and tries not to ask. If he knows too much, he'll feel guilty over not speaking with Greagoir. Don't ask, don't tell, better to keep out of it as much as possible. That's the loyalty he owes her.

To complete the image of complete relaxation, yet another pocket yields a bunch of cookies, haphazardly throw onto the desk's before she proceeds to pay him no attention whatsoever.

As a Templar, Cullen learned how to be quiet and wait around mages. As himself, Diana taught him that waiting is just not possible, especially when she is in his personal private space, acting like every inch belongs to her. He manages to keep silent for a grant total of two minutes before he is forced by the circumstances to act.

_Don't sigh, don't sigh, don't you dare sigh. _"What are you doing here, Amell?"

"Working. And, in case you didn't notice, it's hard to concentrate with you yapping about. Did you know mathematics can be used to describe magical effects?" A cookie is smashed shamelessly between her lips, little crumbs falling onto his previously immaculate desk. "This Warden is an absolute genius," she mutters, almost to herself. "With very loose morals and I definitely, Maker, _definitely_ wouldn't want to live in his vicinity but I'll be damned, the man's a genius."

"You didn't understand the question." He highly doubts that. "You're in my room. Why?"

"In compensation, you aren't one." The quill taps against her chin rhythmically and he focuses on it. Makes everything easier, especially the part where he's not supposed to stare downwards. "Already told you. Irving babbling. Besides, you are in _my_ Tower."

Cookie falls into her lap, hands slither down, hem gets pulled even more upwards and her legs jump at his eyes and yell 'hello' instead of just waving shyly. If there's a disadvantage with being a Templar and being stuck watching and not touching, he's sure it's sitting on his shoulder and going _mwahaha_ at him.

"Muah." Right, not what he wanted to say. Cullen swallows slowly and opens his mouth again, hoping the knot downstairs has softened. _The one_ _in his throat, he means! Not. There_. "This isn't your Tower." Good, words have been said. We have progress.

"I'm a mage, it's definitely more mine than yours. You know, Tower of Magi." Her eyes flash up for a second, incredibly green against her tanned face. "Besides, it's not like you're staying."

_Strange. A bomb was supposed to make more noise than that. _Cullen's mind goes into overdrive, limbs rushing in attempt to force him to search for a shelter right freaking now because Amell seems calm and that's never a good sign. She continues scribbling away, one hand busy with the quill, the other lifting cookies to her lips without the minimum of respect for his carpet.

"How do you know that?" He asks gingerly, leaning just the slightest trace towards the headboard, a very handy barrier. In case of fire. You know.

Amell snorts before replying, a perfect way to mock him and impersonate a pig at the same time. "Irving never cleans up his desk. How do you think Jowan knew he was about to be made Tranquil? All paperwork gets thrown around at some moment in time."

There is nothing else to be said. Silence falls between them, as oppressing as if Greagoir had entered the room and started standing guard to a corner. Cullen truly doesn't know what to say.

"When are you going anyway?" The mage continues, still avoiding his gaze.

"Tomorrow."

The silence. It presses him against the floor. And her calm is an eruption ready to happen, the floor rumbling underneath his feet but steady as the volcano refuses to go off. Cullen decides it's best to poke the dragon with a sharp sword instead of waiting.

"You're not bothered about it?"

The quill bends between her fingers and a sharp sound informs him it's now useless.

_Bullseye._

"Why would I be?" Because she's finally looking at him and she's sneering like a perfect noble born. "It's not like I owe you or anything. Or that I'm against it. Or that we're friends. No."

A deep black blot rushes through the vellum as the ink drips, shamelessly covering her previous precise notes. Cullen can almost hear it laughing of her, a sure sign his sanity isn't all there in between his anxiety. He's also a little smug. Diana is a person who causes instability to others, not someone who suffers through it.

And she's going to rip him a new one from head to toe.

Diana takes what seems to be a couple of steadying breaths, gives him a particularly incensed look before settling down. "By the way, you should be guarding the library right about now."

_What?_ Cullen mentally reviews his previous orders. _No, he's pretty sure…_

"No, I shouldn't."

Her lips twist, redrawing her ever-present smile line.

"Yes. You definitely should."

Cullen feels he should be starting to fear right about now.

"Amell."

She ignores him.

"Amell."

Again, oh look, he's invisible.

"_Diana_! What did you do?"

Good Maker, her smile. It is so fake his skin stands on end. "Me? Why would I do anything? It's not my fault you're not where you're supposed to be. It's not my fault either that you didn't pay attention to your shifts or to how easily your rosters are manipulated. Especially Greagoir's handwriting." Her quill begins scratching once more, steady lines drawing defined characters he doesn't understand. "Fire training for the apprentices? In a library and with no guards, no less. Just _imagine_ what will happen."

Oh.

That'd be his heart stopping.

"That's for hiding it from me, you coward," Diana keeps going with pure womanly viciousness, fingers tightly wrapped around her bent quill. The Templar can't help but see the similarity between the woman and Owain even if one is all spiteful anger and another breathes passive sadism. "I would have cared if you had only told me. I thought."

The rest of the sentence dies on her lips as if she has hit a barrier but her eyes never turn away.

"I'm sorry."

Cullen finds that he is. Sorry for leaving, sorry for not protecting her in the maelstrom which overtook the Tower and he is an especially sorry excuse for a Templar for allowing everything to take place. He was the Templar, he was the one who was supposed to be distant, not to blush whenever she walked into the room or allow her to _grasp_ a blade or to mock and be his friend and harm her for leaving without a word.

"Well," the quill snaps _again _between her fingers while the words are spat through pressed lips like each hurts to give form. "Don't know why you would be. You did nothing wrong, absolutely completely nothing. You're a veritable first child of the Maker." While the vellum underneath her fingertips begins to smoke at the edges and her robe is close enough to catch on fire. Her magic, that one bristles and sparks in the air making his hair stand on end.

"I smell smoke," she informs, effectively closing the discussion. "You should leave."

Only he doesn't want to. Too much lies unsaid and he wants to explain that he might be a little cowardly, that he might want to flee what she turns him into; a person and not a Templar, a good person who wants to keep her safe and. That would be himself smelling smoke and ashes. Greagoir is going to kill him. Ah, to the Fade with everything.

Cullen runs out, barely sparing a look behind him. Diana doesn't follow. And when he comes back – covered in soot, cursing, ears ringing from the Knight-Commander's kind '_what did you think you were doing, you idiot'_ tone, Amell is gone without a trace and doesn't show herself before his departure.

The man pretends not to feel disappointed.

**xxxXXXXxxx**

All in all, Cullen thinks when entering Kirkwall, he got out easy. Just a sample of a fire, a firm scolding and he had been able to leave the next day without punishment. He really thinks everything is over and he won't suffer for keeping his personal life secret.

Only he arrives in the Gallows, settles his affairs, reaches for his chest in search of clothes for a well-deserved rest. Instead of Amell, her neat handwriting glares at him from the inside of the wooden item.

'_And this is for running away, you weakling.'_

He had never known himself to own red satin underwear, the Templar mutters, messing away his baggage in search for the breeches that were supposed to be inside. Nor dresses. Not frilly dresses with bright pink bows and sparkling beads.

"_Knight-Captain_. What are doing?"

To complete his nightmare, Meredith would have come to welcome him in this precise moment in time. Of course. Cullen slaps the chest's top down, stifling the urge to jump on the offending item or - much more likely - light it on fire before the Knight-Commander forms a whole new opinion of his person. Like someone who has a whole cemetery inside his closet.

He sighs silently, standing rigid and straight, gathering all pieces of his dignity when it seems a more than futile effort.

Alright. _Maybe_ she's upset.

Late at night, when Meredith is more or less convict she might not have done a horrible choice, Cullen returns to his room and learns his purse is very freed of sovereigns, his sweets have faded into nothingness and a book has been included, one which would get him arrested in three different countries.

Screw 'maybe'.


	15. She is contradicted

**Author's note: **Not very good, I'm afraid. But the next two should be better and god knows I can't read this again.

**In this chapter: **Friends stop you from denial-ing yourself into oblivion.

* * *

**015.**

_"You seem tired," Cullen says almost gently. Diana repays him with a malevolent snicker, one which has a 'damn right, you idiot' implied all over it. But that's as far as she will bother to show her displeasure. He is comfy against her back, never mind the Maker-forsaken armor he cannot get rid of; it's comfortable and strong, solid and tough, everything she has missed and everything she has gotten used to._

_While she's at it, how lame can she get?_

_The healer physically shakes away the feeling, adjusting her head against the piece of his mail which is less uncomfortable. The whole position is, actually, hard floor against her legs, her tailbone uncomfortably smashed on the floor. Still, Diana prefers it to any cushioned seat. And this is when she keeps herself from asking the rather obvious question of why with a harsher smack against a corner of his armor. Physical harm always stops her from doing stupid, unnecessary and otherwise relatively dangerous questions._

_"What happened?" Cullen continues, not even bothering to adjust to her new position. Former experiences taught him that Diana will continue moving until she finds it again. "You're upset."_

_"I'm not upset."_

_"Yes, you are. I noticed. So has the rest of the Tower. Why?"_

_Diana opens her mouth to answer and then closes it again, actually confused; actually hesitating for once. Why is she mad? She knows she is, it runs through her veins and keeps her heart steadily beating faster._

_"I have no idea," she confesses._

_Without needing to look at his face, the mage knows Cullen is rolling his eyes; maybe even resting his forehead against his hand like he does so often when her actions have no explanation. "Just like you," he says agreeably. "To be angry for no reason whatsoever. And whose it against this time?"_

_That is one very easy answer._

_"You."_

_His head peeks over his shoulder, searching for something more than blonde hair, an eyebrow firmly trying to meet his hairline "Me?"_

_"Yes, you," she repeats. "Who else would anger me this much?"_

_"Half the Tower plus whomever crosses from the shore," is Cullen's reply._

_Her point has just been pointed out._

_"I said anger," she mutters deliberately slow. "Not annoyance."_

_The Templar sighs, relaxing back once more; man keeps knowing which battles not to pursue. Seriously, she is getting prouder and prouder of her Templar lately. Like a nicely domesticated Mabari. So proud. "I don't see the difference but fine. What have I done to anger you this time?" Like that is such a random rare event._

_Why indeed. Diana frowns, a hand crawling distractedly to the back of his head, fingers playing with the short hair he persisted in cutting to an almost military degree. Cullen doesn't complain. Not that she will stop if he had but it is good to know he is learning. Such a good boy. Why is she mad at him? Not mad but actually angry, so much that her hand is shaking above her eyes, gripping and tugging and…_

_"You're pulling my hair out." His hand catches hers, dislodging the offending fingers before she takes something out permanently. "That's not a reply."_

_"Sorry." She isn't; not really. He has large fingers, Diana thinks absently as her own drift over his, even larger hands. No wonder he can gather the sword she now uses with such easiness while she struggles before any spell is cast. Calluses over skin, chipped nails – and bitten to the core; apparently, one needs to be a child to be recruited as a Templar. Why had he been, anyway? He could have been anything he wanted to. A farmer, a merchant, a knight. He could leave this Tower and not make her wonder._

_Leave? That's it, isn't it?_

_"You left." Diana turns on her spot, abandoning her comfortable position to kneel at his back. Like an avalanche, all information rushes forward and out her lips. "That's why I'm angry. Because you were helping me out and it was nice. Because I thought we were companions and you gallivanted away without even telling me about it."_

_This time, Cullen doesn't turn to face her. And his eyes resolutely avoid anything of her. Even her recrimination. Especially her recrimination. "You can use the word friends, you know?"_

_Her answer is immediate. "We're not friends."_

_"Then why do you care if I leave?"_

_"I don't care if you leave."_

_"You're terribly angry for someone who doesn't care." Cullen's voice is dry once more and she kind of likes it, how he speaks to her without the faintest trace of a stutter. "And before you say you're not angry, I'll call your attention to what your hand is doing."_

_The Templar doesn't wear gauntlets for once. It's why Diana can see exactly what her fingers are doing, gripping his so tightly that is a wonder how he isn't whining over the pain. He looks over her shoulder, an expression as dry as it's supposed to be apologizing, light blue eyes all too close to hers. She feels like tapping the wrinkles doing a jig on his forehead._

_"Oh."_

_"Oh, indeed. And what does this mean?"_

_That her subconscious should know that enough is enough and that this is a question that will not be answered._

**xxxXXXxxx_  
_**

_Oh. Dear. Maker._

Diana wakes up with her head throbbing; feeling like an ogre took residence inside and is currently attempting to bash its way out. Her blonde hair is all over the place, her sheets have taken a trip down the lane and are resting by the bed's side; cold sweat covers her top to bottom. The mage doesn't notice how disgusting the image is. She's too busy pressing chilled fingers to that spot of forehead which pulses like a heartbeat. It takes a grand total of five minutes for her to understand her bedside table is, by far, a greater weapon than she could ever be.

Which leads to the observation that she is a mage and certainly not a mastermind. Otherwise, she would have healed the injury already. In the dark, her spell brightens like a small sun and almost rends her eyes useless.

Again, genius.

That's hardly the most bothersome detail. Diana sits in her own bed, cross legged, arms resting over her knees recalling pieces of the dream which persists with painful clarity. It's not that her dream self was comfortable around Cullen, her awake self was too. Or even that they were talking, Maker knows it happened so often it had become part of her day. It's that she dreamed about him in the first place. That she misses those moments enough. And she doesn't miss him, she doesn't, damnit. Diana can't describe her thoughts right then, the steady net they always follow (all over the place) turns into something cats would play with. Times two. Two hundred.

The mage is moving before her two remaining brain cells can rub against each other and produce thought.

"Diana. What are you doing?"

Petra's face appears out of nowhere, right in front of hers. Pretty blue eyes, by the way; a little surprised, a little concerned, Petra's such a good lapdog… huh,_ girl_. She seriously meant girl.

"Sticking my head into a bucket of cold water."

Bucket, hair drenched, what else would she have been doing?

"I can see that," Petra comments hesitatingly; like Diana has suddenly turned into Jowan (a neat little eleven on the one to ten scale of idiocy). "But why?"

Because otherwise she'll remember the dream and how she's so not upset and so not angry and not even close to wanting to get out of the Tower tomorrow and track him down and then. Then what? Kill him would be fun but not very satisfying in the long run. Diana leans back on her knelt position, tightening her hair carefully to get rid of the excess water. It also serves an excellent way to avoid the other woman's questioning eyes.

"To wake up?" The mage tries, attempting very hard not to feel like a child caught with her whole arm in the cookie jar.

"Sunrise is still four hours away, Diana."

"Which can lead us to the question as to why you're awake and up." The awkward pause which follows is broken by Petra's smile. One that _doesn't_ bring sunshine and daisies to mind. More like sheets and lacy underwear.

Diana dunks her head back in the bucket because that sort of mental images is also out of her 'to-dwell-on' folder.

"I heard you, you know. You're not quieter when you're sleeping." Her companion sits on the floor by her side; quietly but Diana can see it through the corner of her eye. Maker. She's getting comfortable. This won't end anytime soon. _…and what does she mean with 'I heard'?_ "Commander this, Commander that, I'm not upset, I'm not angry. Which, you are, anyone can see that."

Defensiveness pulls her head back out of the water. "Why do you two keep saying that?" She demands between closed teeth. "I'm not angry!"

Petra does little more than cleaning the droplets in her face in response to her outburst.

"I wasn't the one to say it, you did." So she says. Diana didn't hear anything, not one word. "Besides, everyone's been calling you a time bomb lately. Asking why Ser Cullen went away, thinking you either molested him in his sleep or you're pregnant. And I call your attention to how you just said you _two_ when I'm pretty sure I'm not possessed."

Half her speech is forgotten. One word sticks. Diana finds herself flustered for the first time since she found Jowan with a girl doing. Stuff. Wait, no. That had been him. Stuttering all through seven days, the poor dear.

"Pregnant?" The healer echoes, ever so stridently, all thoughts of Jowan out the window and into the lake. "Who's been say. I'm not. _What_? I'm not pregnant!"

The brunette smiles again (looking for anyone watching like a mini-Wynne, complete with patronizing attitude), before rising from her place and moving behind her. Fingers slip through wet strands to push her hair back. It is… nice. Diana shrugs the feeling of outright _lameness_ away; her dream probably beat anything she can manage while awake.

"You're pretty good at avoiding the key parts of the rant." Is whispered by her ears and completely ignored. "I'm not going to kick you out of your denial though." Because she is_ not _in denial. "You'd likely just laugh of my words and pretend I haven't said anything." Sort of. "But I do understand why. It's hard to have a friend leaving you without a warning."

_They're not friends._

Diana doesn't see her expression harden, so set and steady that it seems as if she will never be able to smile again. She's not upset, she's not angry; they really don't get it. Her subconscious, the Commander, Irving, Petra, Greagoir (who was totally gossiping, weird old man), even Jowan when he came to visit. She's not angry.

She may be _sort of_ (somewhat) hurt.

"It's all right to consider someone a friend. Even if it's a Templar," Petra says sensibly, pushing a last strand of hair into place, a neat braid leaving her hands as she moves them to the healer's shoulders. "It's all right to miss them. It's all right to want to see them. It's _not_ all right to pine over them without doing a thing about it."

Hearing that from a fellow mage makes the situation a little better. Diana swallows slowly, kicking denial into a corner of her mind. "If I missed him, which I don't and you stop smirking, I can see you in the mirror." Petra's smile dims to a mere bright childish grin, one answered with the blonde's most innocent look, complete with blinking wide eyes and pouting lip. "It's not like I can do anything?"

"Is this your way of asking me for help?"

Wynne-impersonation again. Rub it in, woman, rub it in. A scroll in placed on her lap faster than her eyes can follow; so much that Diana is left wondering just where it was hidden. That mage robe is a bit constricting after all, where did she placed the ink bottle? "Here," Petra instructs, plopping back in front of her. "First, you write a reason to leave the Tower, then a reason to leave for Kirkwall, all to be delivered to the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander of both this Tower and Kirkwall's. Finally a list of whatever the Knight-Captain did to upset you so you won't forget on the way."

"And you think they'll buy these?"

"Bet you Irving and Greagoir will kick you out in your smalls if you gave them this tonight."

Good Maker, does Wynne know her apprentice is a wicked wicked witch of the West with doe eyes? If she doesn't, not like she is going to tell her. She likes this Petra.

"I might just miss you," Diana says, quill already dancing on the vellum's surface.

"Write me his idiocies, I can write back. Unlike the Templar, I know how to keep contact. Besides." A small pause, jam-packed with unspoken amusement. "Not like anything's going to happen in this place while you're gone."

That sentence makes it sound like she alone brings disaster.

Damnit. It's strangely correct.

The woman _is_ wicked, Diana concludes as Petra dishes out an amazing amount of bullshit in order to convince two orders to get her out of the Tower. Who would have thought?


	16. He is surprised

**Author's note: **A quick update, quicker than expected but whatever. Hope you like it, I have hopes of finishing this before April or so.

**In this chapter: **You thought you were free? Think again, Templar.

* * *

**016.**

The decision to leave the circle of Ferelden hadn't been his to make. It had been a suggestion, carefully fed by Meredith in the Circle's halls, one placed on his desk by Greagoir himself at a later date (with an added note of censorship). Cullen didn't ask the reason for both. It could have been the nightmares the Tower still represented to him, the Blight taking over the land and sheer necessity of having more Templars out there where they could do some good. It was also more than likely related to the fact that Diana Amell was a near constant presence somewhere around his vicinity. And it wasn't even his fault. Or hers, he guessed. It just happened. Sheer Fate or Andraste herself shrugging her shoulders. Leaving had been a good decision.

He wasn't supposed to trust mages. Mages were dangerous, simple connections to the Fade that whatever demon could take over. Kirkwall was safe. Here, he didn't have reasons to trust them. He could trust Meredith to do the right thing and do his job. Like a good little Templar. Safe. No desire demons taking over his mind and body, making him wish and want and hope, no glowing barriers around him or mages forgoing magic in order to get physical.

It's also lonely, it's also different and alien and foreign and has something incredibly large against his person since every freaking individual wants his head on a platter. And it's free of mage influence on his person. _No. No, but. But_ is free of influence on his person and that's a good thing.

Kirkwall is a safe place. That's just how he likes it.

Until _The_ _Day_.

A year has gone by since he has last seen her. But lo and behold, the Gallows watch her enter through the gates like they are little more than the Tower library she lived in. And the Maker himself is witness that he has to hold on astonishingly hard to his pride in order not to bolt inside.

_What is she doing here_, and his brain goes into overdrive as others join him in staring. _I mean_, why wouldn't they? She dresses in armor, pure silverite in the morning sun – _dear Maker, hadn't he told the First Enchanter to actually lock his gold_? – a sword which is still too alike to his resting on her back – _his old one, deformed beyond belief and taste_ – with that expression he knows well, curiosity and amusement when facing a whole new playground.

No, he's not thinking about running for cover. He's way past thinking about it and already stepping back.

"Cullen," she yells over the courtyard, all pretenses of politeness and manners bashed into oblivion. And grins from ear to ear as if she's happy, blond hair spilling all over her shoulders – _longer, he notices without actually meaning to –_ green eyes just as unashamed as ever. He can sense every other eye on them too, raised eyebrows included as he is _the stick-in-the-mud who doesn't get laid _– their words – and what is he doing with a woman again? With his luck, the Knight-Commander will leave right _then_ and they'll have a new tranquil on their hands.

Oh Maker. One second with Meredith and Diana will be branded a maleficar, as certain as his conviction on her inability to keep quiet.

"There you are, Captain." Cullen chances a look to the staircase behind him in almost longing. It's not that he doesn't wish to see her, it's not. They're. Sort of friends? Sort of? A little more? Little less? Maker, he can't even begin to explain this relationship because it makes as much sense as everything that took place between and around them. Whatever it is, it's not that he doesn't want her around.

It's just that wherever Diana walks, Andraste's sweet bad luck follows like a well behaved mabari; gnawing at his toes without pity.

Cullen feels his back straighten in reflex as she comes near, gathering the last shreds of his dignity. "Knight-Captain, Amell."

Of course she rolls her eyes, a hand waving in careless abandon. "_Knight-Captain Cullen_. There, all your mouthful of names." The other hand against her waist, a scolding mother while his dignity bursts into flames. "You should really take that tree out of your rear end. Before you start sneezing out leaves. By the way, do you know how _weird_ it is to call you that?"

As odd as calling _this_ Senior Enchanter. Forget tranquil. Meredith will just kill them both and be done with it.

"What are you doing here, Amell?" This isn't the right moment. There's a migraine touching his temples and he finds himself rubbing it away. Attempting, at least. "And alone. You know how the situation is here. This Circle is not the Ferelden Circle. It is..."

She stops his gestures with a quick movement, two fingers against his temple and a spell that tastes like mint and ice. It soothes his pain within a second. Cullen had forgotten how good she was at that. Maybe even more than how bad she was at everything else. He had also forgotten how easy this had become, the way she would invade his personal space like it was nothing at all, how accepted it felt at times. And that is something he doesn't wish to remember.

"Down, boy, down." Right, that would be a direct stab to his unsaid 'thank you'. "I'm here on official business." And up go her fingers, quotations over the word, an expression which contradicts any seriousness. "I have orders from Irving and everything. Fade, even Greagoir joined the party."

"But alone..."

"Aw, worry." Don't pat anything in his body like he's a naughty pet. And no, he didn't miss her irreverence, or the way she doesn't place him on a pedestal or. "No one has a thing for hitting me with random pieces of metal. Even darkspawn stick them instead. You're one of a kind." Or her ability to keep remembering him of a mistake done years before over and _over and over_ again just because it's the only weapon he ever gave her. "Besides, I go nowhere without my leash. By the way, where is…?"

Diana steps away and turns her back on him, glancing around for whatever she means. Cullen just follows her gaze – not because he's curious or anything – but because he can. "Leash?"

"Mhm." The mage doesn't turn to him but he can see the little lines of worry forming on her forehead. "Leash? I didn't think I'd lose…" she interrupts herself before waving widely, almost hitting him on the way, and calling the attention of everyone, from Trask to merchants. And she is tall though, sadly, not enough for him to hide behind. "Leash! There you are! Thought you'd gotten lost and everything. You should be more careful. I get in trouble when you're not around."

Leash is a man. Leash is a _Templar_. Older than them but not by much, a look of exasperated patience under a mop of long black hair, one Cullen saw countless times on Greagoir when dealing with Amell.

"And when I _am_," he says gruffly, sigh implied in every sound. "Senior Enchanter, please. I have told you."

Her grin is for the captain alone and he can swear, very underneath, she is acting worse than usual and this man is the reason. He and everything he represents. Not being able to walk anywhere without a leash, even if not literally. Ah, and there it is, of course. A spark of guilt. This is why Gregoir pushed them cities apart. Around her, he feels _pity_.

"This is Leash, Captain," she introduces – rambles in his random direction. "I tried to get Whip but Petra got to him first. And Irving gave this to me. Isn't he cute? I was thinking of renaming him something stronger. Like Hammer or Axe or Chopping Block."

"Senior Enchanter!"

Cullen doesn't feel like laughing either, not even when the man sighs in suffering. He could tell him though, explain. Play along, she won't change because you try. Don't use her title much, she pays no attention to it. She's like a child, she'll never take you seriously as you are her shackle. He doesn't. Instead, Cullen allows her presence to sweep around and it's like a little humor inside those walls which never see it, the kind of life of someone who enjoys the Circle – clearly never having lived in this one – and there's the kind of brashness typically Ferelden that he almost missed.

Maker forgive him, he no longer thinks of fleeing. Instead, he accepts. Basks in it.

"_Yes_?" And Cullen isn't smiling, perish the thought. He's not. _Oh shut it_. "It's your name. A bad one but yours."

A sigh. "It's Ser Grover."

"It's Grover Leash," Diana corrects primly.

"Lish, Senior Enchanter."

"Lish, Leash, same thing, same purpose. And see." She latches to his arm, warm and comfortable despite the rather large armors between them. Good Maker, that'd be mushy enough for him to ask for retirement. "I found the Captain. You can go off do whatever good little Templars do in their free time and leave me alone for bloody two seconds. Before I need to resort to feminine willies or getting stark naked on the courtyard."

_Yes, please._

…

He's reconsidering fleeing towards the interior rather strongly now.

Her prison follows her around, his guilt explains rather unnecessarily; it traps her actions, tries to cage her words. She holds onto him because. Because. He has no idea why. Cullen was her jailor for a long time. Perhaps she just prefers the one who wouldn't be able to murder her. And the sheer idea of having her a tranquil, it speaks to the man who once followed her around the library. It makes him nauseous.

His – _stupid double-crossing_ – hand grips her gauntlet, placing it on his arm securely. "I will take over from here," mouth being traitorous, his body replacing logical thought. "You can return later, Ser Lea—Grover."

_Good boy_, her snicker by his ear.

The Templar's not pleased, it's easy to see. However, Cullen is more now than he was in Ferelden. Here, he is the Knight-Captain – never mind her demeaning influence already showing – and his attitude books no argument. Cullen stares the man down and waits. There's hesitation in the stern features, a little rebellion, a little happiness – _am I really free for now_? – before he bows and leaves. More like _runs_.

Tension slips from her body like warmth, felt even between both armors. As his before, gratitude goes unsaid.

"So will you tell me why you are here?" Cullen finally asks once the attention of everyone else has wavered and the man is long gone.

Her lower lip is tugged, chewed thoughtfully in pure avoidance. "Messages. Loads of messages. For everyone from top to bottom." Lies, loads of lies, every word. Diana forgets he knows her, as well as he knows his room has one bed, one table, one closet and a drawer filled up to the bring with red underwear he hasn't managed to get rid of just yet.

"Mages don't get sent as messengers randomly, Amell."

"Diana. Yes, we do. Well, I do. I'm special." Before or after she talked Irving half to death, he wonders. She tries to release herself only to fail when he holds her in place. She, of all people, avoids and flees, disperses in words without meaning instead of replying directly. It's why he doesn't release her, even when Diana's hands seem to try to close into fists.

"I mean. We got the news," she continues, apparently against her will. "This place is like Blood Mage central lately. And you're like the magnet for all big bad things and nasty, especially now that you have a _title_ and everything. It's not like you're a huge target or anything, what could it be?" Dry, dry tone and _dude, are this much of a Templar, where's your brain?_ "It's not like it's dangerous to be in this blasted city."

_One second. _Processing, thinking it over. "You were worried?"

Her little frown returns but, this time, Cullen can see it in all its rare glory – _Don't gloat, there is no reason to gloat, gloating is just wrong for your dignity –_ her previous grin fading like he has force-fed her an entire tray of lemons.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"I am not playing this game with you, Amell."

"_Diana_. And why not?"

Bar the obvious. "Knight-Captain. Senior Enchanter. We are also older than _six_."

_She was worried._

_She was._

_Is._

_Fine, faint inner gloating_, Maker knows why. Cullen recognizes perfectly well that his perfect mask has cracked, the smallest turn of his lips right at the corner. She rubs his wounds, he finds hers and cracks them open all over again. It is their little private game.

Her hand reaches out to grip the front of his armor, pulling his face forward until her eyes are incredibly green, incredibly close and he's very sure he's standing on a landmine. "If you make me reply positively to that," Diana pushes out as if every word hurts. "I'll fireball the Fade out of your man parts. Repeatedly."

They're really not friends, they're not more, they're not anything. Familiar and carrying that happiness which has no reason or explanation and it's Ferelden in a place where he begins to feel slightly off at times. Even though Diana is a mage and in danger, here of all places, her shackles visible on the armed man who follows her everywhere. This is a weakness. She is. He is.

"Fair enough," he replies simply, pushing her arm down and recovering his much loved personal space. Her arm is held once more and she is guided down somewhere in the direction of the docks. Somewhere she'll make the least possible damage. Somewhere she'll be safe.

Or, if he wants to be honest, somewhere very far away from Meredith.

There goes his quiet little life.


	17. She is protected

**Author's note: **Next update will take some time to be written, I have other stories to catch up to :( But I adored writing this chapter so it needed to be up.

**In this chapter: **And here she was, not even knowing she needed closure. Who said Templars were dumb?**  
**

* * *

Diana has no idea what she's doing in Kirkwall.

Any sane mage in Ferelden knows well enough to stay out of the city. In fact, Ferelden mages quite like staying inside their territory. It's not perfect, their Circle; still restrictive, still with children ripped from their parents and across a lake to the place where many will live until they pass. Still. It's not bad. Irving is a good First, even if he keeps trying to lecture the stones in the walls into submission. Greagoir isn't _that_ bad, especially when he's not trying to have her beheaded. And the King. The King _likes_ them. The Warden approves of them. There's even talk about a Circle in _Orzammar_.

All good and acceptable things.

It doesn't explain why she felt the need to run off with a leash quite severely attached to her. She likes the Circle. Her calm life – sort of – messing around with Jowan's head every time he visits, teach little kids that it's really okay to fireball people. Especially if they're Templars. _Aim for the weak spots, kids, they'll never notice_. Irving sighs somewhere around her back and that's fine. Her life. She likes it.

But there is this big empty Templar shaped hole in Her Tower. There's this extra Templar place in the city where everything connected to Blood Magic just happens to happen.

All in all, Cullen is an idiot and she's there to protect him from himself.

Not that Diana is going to stay long or anything. The city is scary enough, the Gallows make her want to run and stop only at the Docks on the way home. It's why her eyes avoid it carefully, very _very_ carefully, keeping her eyes firmly in front of her and simply walks wherever he is walking.

There is no contact between them either. Good. It makes her feel a little freer. It's not that she _wants_ her freedom per se, mages need to be taught and that what the Circle represents for her. Leash – _Lich, whatever the idiot's name is_ – is not Cullen. You know, abominations, broken noses, stolen swords, amazing backs, all good history. Cullen won't cut her down for coughing out of turn.

"Left, Amell." Though he might if she keeps pushing her buttons. He'll crack and try some day, just watch.

The higher part of the city is rather appealing and her mouth isn't open, damnit. Only her eyes try to see everything at the same time and it's so good that no one sees her as a mage here. Though they stare at the Templar often. Fine, he's using skirts, so does every other Templar in the city. Just what has he been up to?

Eyebrow? Well up.

"You're not taking me to throw me in one of your dungeons, are you?" Because she has permission and and. Maker help her, she'll strike down every Templar between her and the docks before she's forced to stay in this Circle. It tastes wrong, the same way her cell once did.

A sigh, as per usual. "You're in Hightown, Amell."

That really means nothing to her. The pretty buildings – _which should really be taller_ – the wide streets – _and she really thinks they should definitely wider, more beautiful, shining with all the colors_ – and banners everywhere. Right. First time in the city and she's playing external decorator.

"Fine, Hightown," she replies absently, the name ringing hollow in the back of her mind. "Whatever. As long as it's not the jailed place. Enough bars for me, thanks." There's something familiar about this place. Something that's constricting her chest little by little, an itch beneath her armor. Tried scratching those? Nightmare. The itch grows and evolves as she walks and it's underneath her very skin when she follows him up and up and all the way up till the Chantry. "I shouldn't be here. It's no place for lowly mages even if they're wrapped in warrior package."

The itch develops further and changes and it's no longer an itch as it's fear, it's definitely fear, she can recognize it after so long – _look at it dropping to greet her, such a nice fellow_. And it comes so strongly, so suddenly that Diana doesn't notice when she starts backing away from the Templar, steps slowing to a halt and then trying to recede.

It's the Captain's hand that stops her, clasped on her gauntlet with a vice grip.

"What are you doing?" His words sound almost confused, definitely not Knight-Captain-Sir in all his glory. He doesn't get it, he never does, not now, not _then_ and maybe there are demons and _that's_ why she's scared. "This is Hightown in plain daylight," he elaborates. "Why are you acting like you're threatened? You haven't so far." Not even in the Gallows, that is so weird but the feeling is there and it doesn't go away.

Her eyes run from left to right, up and down. There is no threat to run from or place to escape to. Besides, escaping means apostate and having her head ripped off because of a phobia would count high on her 'stupid reasons to die' list.

"I shouldn't be here."

That eyebrow, that flipping stupid eyebrow of his calls her moron without words, an expression on his face which speaks of no emotion or understanding. Fine, she's a mage, she's not supposed to be there, of course. But this goes _beyond_ the basic.

He pulls her along instead of listening. The idiot pulls her along just like that day, w_hy doesn't he ever listen to her?_ Why did she come, he clearly should suffer, she's just an idiot for worrying and a bloody stupid person for coming.

"Commander, I'm not kidding," her breathing changes, quicker and gasped, while she struggles against his hold. "I'm not. He's. I'm not supposed to be here." And she doesn't even know what she's saying anymore, who_ he_ is and why she's not, just that she isn't. "He's going to be mad. She is too. I ne—" _I, what?_

Cullen, awful man that he is, stops in his tracks, barely enough time to give her a look that's all pity and the hallways of the Circle before Uldred. Before Jowan and blood magic. When she was just a normal woman in his eyes except for the whole _going to kill you if you fail your Harrowing, yay_.

Pity or not, he drags her a little more, dumping her against a doorway exactly when Diana's that close to hyperventilate. Maybe she should use magic. Right, she _is_ a healer. Why isn't she doing anything then? Oh, because _he_ doesn't want to,_ she _said so. Dearest Maker, she'd pay an arm and a leg for a functional thought.

"I would see your lady," his voice states somewhere from the maze her mind's in. "Is she here? If not, Serah Hawke will do."

Another grip on her armor. Diana is almost carried now, that close to harm him, very close to bolt away. She can't be there, she will die if she comes here; that's what every nerve in her body screams without bothering to leave a note in explanation.

It doesn't make sense, really. The mansion is beautiful, the windows are turned to the light and the warmth would taste wonderful on bare skin, the chandelier, the carpets, the fire and the Mabari – _what's a mabari doing there, he's not supposed to. _There is no threat but the urge to burn her way through the walls keeps growing.

"Knight-Captain. I didn't expect you." It is a lady who receives the Templar, apparently ignoring the other woman in the room. A lady with grey hair and a beautiful dress. _A lady with blonde hair and warm honey colored eyes, a man with dark hair and stone, stone as expression_. "Is there a problem? Is my Carver in trouble? My son? I know my son to be in Sundermount." Her lovely face turns to the side, worried. The lady with blonde hair did so too, _don't show, don't show anyone, it's a secret_. Cullen's hand like a tourniquet around whatever is exposed of her arm.

_By the way, lady, can't you see he's manhandling someone _right in front of you_? Stop asking useless stuff and tell him to quit it._

The mage tugs a little more, wondering how much it's possible to free without any spells being cast. Bastard. The bastard would smite the living blood out of her if she used magic.

"You have a visitor from Ferelden, Lady Amell."

That's when she stops fighting. Exactly then. Exactly with the last word. The fear is physical now and she has no strength to resist anymore. She is five _and her_ _mother had blonde hair and kind clear eyes_, her grandfather stares from up those stairs and _yet another mage, a stain in our line. I won't have her here_. They speak around her and, vaguely, someone calls her _Senior Enchanter Amell from the Circle of Ferelden_. What a bloody mouthful. Irving should shorten it. It's mage. Just a mage. She's the stain of the family and she's going to be in Ferelden, _it will be nice, sweetheart, you don't need to worry. Mother will come often_.

The grip on her arm disappears. Two hands touch her cheeks, making her face turn to stare at warm brown eyes. All over again. _Mother will visit_. Only she didn't. _She is a stain. Send her away_. That she did.

The lady smiles. Kindly, that's kindly. Captain did say the mage part of her presentation, right? Mage? Very bad and cursed person?

"Revka's child." _Revka, why didn't you tell me this?_ Fingers touch around her face, smooth the strands of her hair. "I haven't seen you since you were a baby. You probably didn't even know I existed. Leandra. Do you know that name?" _First Leandra and now this. No more children from you, Revka. Do you listen to me_?

"I'm a mage." The house closes around her, the house who threw her out. Mother slept upstairs, a room to the back. Grandfather to the side, grandmother had died and she, she was a mage and not worthy. _Don't bring her back, Revka!_ "I'm a mage, lady. I don't know what the Captain told you or anything but. Sorry. Not supposed to be here. He knows. He's going to bring me back to the Gallows right now and then I'll go back to Ferelden and granddad won't."

A look to Cullen, to his stupid emotionless face. It's his damned fault she can't finish a sentence properly!

Leandra turns her face back to hers again. Not scared, she doesn't seem scared. In fact, her eyes are all filled up with tears. _Oh good freaking Maker, forget killing him, I'll just hang him upside down in the Gallows by his nostrils. _And then. There are arms around her neck. "I know, dear." Oh.

_Huh._

What does a normal person do when this happens?

_Hrm._

_Anytime now, brain._

"I never thought you would return to Kirkwall, my dear." Huh. _The lady is speaking to me, right?_ Diana's arms hang to the side, wide as a statue, even as above the lady's shoulder Cullen stares in silence. "We thought to take you in but you were sent away so quickly. Of course, Malcolm couldn't come near the Circle. I am sorry you had to go through that."

Blank, blank and blanker. The Captain doesn't roll her eyes or mock her. Instead, he crosses his arms and bows, _saluting, what in Andraste's frilly nightcap..._ What she doesn't understand, her body does. The Lady has honey colored eyes like her mother, pale skin, greyer hair and, around her, Diana's arms close without her permission, enfold this little person when her mother was so much bigger and. And. There's water on her cheeks and on the Lady's neck.

_Shh, sweetheart, don't cry, mother is here. Everything will be fine. Shh, it'll be our little secret_.

"My Malcolm was a mage, dear," Leandra whispers against her hair. "My Gerard is one as well. So don't you worry, you will be fine here. We don't fear." _It will be our little secret_.

It's not just the lady to underline those words. It's the blasted Captain behind her, crossed arms through her tears, giving her time while keeping the Circle away. This will be a secret. _It will be fine_.

The bastard brought her home.

"Commander?"

The Captain stops exactly on the threshold to another room – _fireplace and the library, don't go inside, dear heart_. Waits. Diana finds that, for once, she has absolutely no words to give to the fool. "Take your time, Amell," he replies with that little smile Kirkwall hasn't killed yet. "I will be on the other room."

_Thank_ and _you_ would be good words but they will never be enough.

Above Leandra, there is a painting. A dignified man with a stony expression, dark brown eyes and dark brown hair, staring at her just like before, leaning on that balcony, up those stairs.

_Hey, granddad? _Diana smiles up to him, grins like she is that little girl all over again, feels her fear fade away as the Lady welcomes her and the Templar protects them. And thinks exactly how much of a stain she is to their line. _I'm back. And you were one huge asshole. I hope mom made the rest of your life a living hell. For serious. I hope we all end being mages and corrupt the whole thing, wouldn't that be a blast? We can go literal on that and everything._

Leandra believes the smile to be for her. That's fine. The older woman is back on her line of vision and fills her silence with questions and answers, a mage who is her son and who she'll meet, "Of course you will, my dear, he would love to know you." A chair beneath her armor, her gauntlets taken away and callused hands on hers. "You look so much like her. Tell me. Tell me of your life, dear."

The mage then drops her whole attention to the cousin with her mother's eyes and the mage as a husband and glosses over every little detail considering fireballs, swords, blood mage friends, darkspawn and a very odd, somewhat not so much of a bastard Templar.


	18. He is threatened

**Author's note: **I'm sorry, guys. My head hurts and I can't correct this chapter anymore. I'm pretty sure I did it over five times now. It's (hopefully) acceptable. And as a sidenote, I want to thank all the support this story has been getting. Thank you. It makes me really glad to know this makes people laugh.

**In this chapter: **Holy bladder of retribution (TM by Champ) is used, big damn clues are given and a bar loses its alcohol supply. All good things.

* * *

**018.**

Everything has changed.

For one, people have lost all respect for him. Once, they walked by him, soft mumbled greetings. A single glare was becoming his weapon of choice when facing unruly Templars and wayward mages; a weapon shamelessly stolen from Greagoir who could outglare Meredith in her best days. Now? Now, they _smile_ up at him. They _grin._ They mutter when he turns his back and _gossip_. Apparently, Amell and he are long lost lovers who came from Orlais, running away from her magister parents who wanted to marry her into the Empress's family and got stuck in the Tower thanks to the Grey Wardens' ability to sniff out, not Darkspawn, but apostates and their spawn. Yes, he's also a father of twins.

One of them is a demon. The other is the Grand Cleric.

Cullen _almost _asks how that is even possible before realizing that acknowledging a rumor will, invariably, turn it into truth. His stupidity doesn't go far enough to sign his mage-lover certificate in such a small distance from the Knight-Commander. He's in no hurry to figure out whether she can tranquil a non-magical human or not.

It goes to show that having a mage nearby, sitting by the column right behind him and filling the air with languid questions is more than confusing enough for a space which usually sees mages and Templars staring at each other with suspicion. His look of suspicion directed at her is, according to them, a sultry one instead.

Migraine. Coming right up.

"You could try to be a little less conspicuous," Cullen tells her during one of the calmer moments, when everyone is already entering the building for the night and their tongues have stopped wagging.

"No one notices me behind you." As always, Amell pays him no mind. Vellums are stretched open in front of her, quill between her fingers as she scribbles away. "The shine of your big bad armor slash sword takes all the space little old me could take. Why do you think I'm here instead of inside where my vellums won't get all moldy and wet?"

By the way? He isn't her servant anymore. Oh no, not at all. He has now been promoted into the very elegant position of wall. Feel free to notice his cheer over the fact.

And while on the subject of inanimate objects. He looks back briefly, trying very hard not to stare at her work. Just how has she gotten a table of her own _outside_? He must investigate who else has been whipped into shape already. Can't have too many of those around. Having the Knight-Captain at her beck and call is bad enough. "Why are you still in Kirkwall anyway?"

_Maybe she miss—_

"Leash needs a couple of weeks in the city for Maker knows what. He has a private life, won't wonders _ever_ cease?"

_Of course not._

"Besides," she continues, biting the end of quill thoughtfully before adding a couple of numbers to a diagram of something that has too many legs to be considered normal. Stare, stare, trying to catch one more detail through the corner of his eye. What is she studying this time? Hopefully not something's children or he'll have to restrict her assess to the apprentices. "This library has a couple of things I can't get back in Ferelden. And there's cousin Leandra to visit."

Cullen steals another glance, just in time to see the smile she can't avoid since he brought her to that house. While she refuses to say why she was scared (so much that he had almost turned back, almost grabbed her hand just in case she ran), that fear faded like cold fog in a warm summer morning leaving only this sedated type of joy. It's nice to watch, gentler to deal with than her usual demeanor. It's. _Pretty_.

Sacrilegious thought is sacrilegious and, therefore, buried beneath a nice pile of abjuration and denial.

"Being a mage doesn't include social calls, Amell," the Templar declares instead, unwilling to let silence settle.

Odd things happen during silence. Like mage watching.

"Nope, it includes pretty bars and ever-present threats. Only Kirkwall lacks the 'pretty' part unless you use it in pretty ugly."

Two years before, this sort of conversation with a mage, of all things, would have bothered him immensely. If he had been able to stutter two words in a row to her. Cullen winces with that thought, shaking his mental head to his past self. He was a very sad man. Even sadder now, as he enjoys her company and welcomes her sensible (even if on the verge of disturbing) chatter. Preferable to the darkness of Kirkwall and the worry which steadily nips at his heels.

_Unusual_ as she is, Diana breathes life into the place she calls home. Not that she's staying or anything. Not that he _wants_ her to stay or anything.

Ah. How he missed his internal arguments.

_Not. At. All._

He diverts his attention to the empty courtyard. His place is inside and so is hers. Still, the soft warmth of the afternoon has shaken away the stale scent of the low tide and it is comfortable outside. Cullen takes a step back, leaning back against the column which gives her shade and waits for night to fall completely. Amell says nothing against it, quill strangely immobilized and silent as she soaks the subtle warmth. The scene is calmer than usual between them and the Captain nearly gives into the temptation of sitting on the floor, cherishing the peace that is so unusual in his life.

He is the Knight-Captain though and the Maker dictates that _Such Peace Shall Not Last Or Else._ Which is exactly Fate demands Gerard Hawke's entrance into the Gallows.

There is no family similarity between Amell and Hawke, Cullen notices vaguely as the man comes closer – straightening because he _is _the Knight-Captain and slouching will not happen. Diana is blonde and green eyed, tanned but with the smooth skin of a sheltered existence, an easy smile and easier lack of manners. Gerard is, for the lack of a better word, dark. Dark hair, darker eyes, coarse tanned skin and a straightforward manner which reminds him of a hungry Mabari facing a banquet. Hawke is a good man. He is. Usually Cullen quite likes the man's no-nonsense policy; it makes his life much easier. Just. Not that much in that precise moment.

You see, Hawke is not alone. That is a cause for annoyance.

Cullen would tell him to stop bringing the apostate. He would. Only that might bring up the subject of how three out of three members of the party are apostates and he can't ignore it when one of them persists in carrying a _staff_ everywhere he walks. Why doesn't he follow Hawke's example? So bluntly a mage – Cullen had stuck his entire trainee group into harsher training regimes for missing it – but still, smart enough to leave that for other parts of the city and not Templar Central. Even if he practically flaunts his power when out of the Gallows. Slapping a storm underneath his nostrils? It's flaunting.

The female elf to the left gains points by disguising her staff as a walking aid but loses them quickly by talking out loud about magical effects and generally being below twenty years, which is a strong advocate against the need for a walking aid.

Anders makes him sigh.

"Isn't that?" He looks back to where Diana sits, quick enough to see her eyes blinking rapidly, lips opening and mouthing something between 'what in the Maker's name?' and a more precise 'The fade?'. Her teeth smash against each other with a very loud snap. "Why?" His friend (?) asks bluntly.

Why is the man stupid enough for this or why hasn't Cullen thrown him into the Gallows already? First one is a mystery worthy of the Chantry's best researchers. The second.

"I'll explain later."

Translation: More time is necessary to find a better reply than 'he is useful outside' or she'll find a way to use it to her advantage and move into Hightown. Turns out, his evasiveness isn't required since her attention is caught by the apostate, much more quickly (much more violently) than he ever would.

"_You_!"

There's a moment as the man walks by him and he walks by that very same man but Cullen doesn't notice. In between the beginning of the thought and the end, he is already following it; shifting and moving until he is right by Diana's side, lips pressed together to avoid a barked 'back off' as the blond man sticks a finger somewhere in Amell's face.

"_You_!" Anders carries on, the sole word echoing through the yard with the accusation of a siren. Maker help him, Meredith is not going to like this. And what Meredith doesn't like usually ends up emotionless in one way or another. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm a mage." Diana bats his hand away, then points to the huge structure all around them, just in case the other left his eyes behind somewhere on the way to Gallows. "Tower." _About to call someone stupid_. "Tadah," she adds dryly.

Anders doesn't give up. He sticks a finger on her chest this time and pokes like she's not paying attention even after his invasion of her personal space. "_Here_, you idiot! What are you doing _here_? In Kirkwall!"

Funny, Cullen contemplates rather slowly, why does ripping that hand off sound like such a good idea? Or lock this man inside, Hawke's help be damned? Preferably some place dark, humid and disease ridden. Especially since every time Anders moves that hand, it prods Diana's assets and that doesn't bother him (of course not) but wishing to cut off appendages is something that happens all the time. Trust him, he knows what he's talking about.

"Putting my plan of breeding blonde haired babies into fruition. So far's been hard to implement it by myself." The statement is delivered with a serious expression, one Diana would use in front of the First Enchanter, her smile replaced by a look-away-where's-my-sword? expression (something that makes him want to run for the hills, as per usual). "Addendum: Stop prodding my chest. Breasts aren't wild beasts who are going to jump at you, no matter the amount of enthusiasm you put in poking them."

Controlling his laughter becomes an issue right then. It is the first time Cullen hears her being herself to another person and it hits him that it's actually pretty damned funny when he's not the one in the meat grinder.

Meanwhile, a little blonde haired girl pops up somewhere in his deranged mind, sporting a very familiar grin, a shiny staff and a miniature of Leandra's dresses. Very pretty. Blue eyed and everything. He smothers her quickly under a hidden chuckle before laughter fades and he's left either running for help or drooling into his smallclothes.

"That's good," Hawke deadpans, breaking the moment between mages – and his wayward thoughts, thank the Maker – eyebrow raised at his underling and not the shade of a smile. The dark haired mage looks ready to rip something out of someone in style. "That'll take the pressure of kids of Fenris and I. We lack the equipment and mother seems to ignore that."

Tension metaphorically snaps like a twig. Unlike Anders' spine, which Cullen finds to be a damned shame.

"You would make a disturbing pregnant man, Hawke," Amell comments mildly.

"It would definitely make it rather hard to work. Who would bring money home?"

"Carver?" Hesitation fills the air as the cousins exchange a look. Hawke doesn't outright laugh and neither does Diana but the dry look on his face speaks of outright disbelief and hers of the trust she gives to Templars in all things. Very close to none.

Templar criticizing always ends up badly for him, Cullen remembers eventually. Therefore, it in his best interests to get this party going before they remember he is right there and is a good target. The Knight-Captain cleans his throat before he walks away from Diana – leaving her to glare at the blond mage in his absence – and gives all his attention to Hawke, his disturbing black eyes and the rather menacing look they are presenting him with.

"You had something to tell me, my friend?"

_What is that glare all about?_

"Yes." The interval between Hawke's brows shortens, nicely decorated with several little lines. "Of course. If you would come with me? It is rather personal."

_It feels like the prelude to a horror story._

Cullen follows the taller man to the center of the yard, noticing for the very first time that Hawke _is_ taller than him though not stronger. Over his skin, that constant remembrance that this man is a mage; magic, energy or whatever one wishes to call it touches him and pushes his every hair into attention.

"Knight-Captain."

"Hawke."

_Silence._

"I do like you, you know? You're a good sort." The splash of freckles on the man's face moves closer. Cullen had never noticed he had those either; his skin, aged before time, hides those very well. They come closer and actually, he is grateful for their existence. They are much easier to stare at than the man's bluntly dark eyes.

The Templar swallows slowly. Urge to go for his sword steadily increases in the background_._ "Thank you?"

"You're welcome." Gerard gives him a small nod as if his comment has been a priceless gift. "But I seem to believe we need one thing straight here."

_More silence. _

"If my cousin does appear pregnant on my doorstep, I will castrate you."

_The silence can be bashed with a small ogre so thick it becomes._

"You see the problem, don't you?" Hawke continues ever so calmly, continuing his perfect impersonation of his other equally dangerous though much _balder_ cousin. "I haven't known her for long and I would like to. Especially since I have lost enough family members to wish to keep the ones I do have. So please."

That please sounds like _do what I say or else there will be several demons eating your heels instead of nipping._

"Hands. Off."

Cullen's brain stops munching popcorn in the background and unfreezes from its momentary coma, sending a quick message to his lips to get cracking before he ends up mage-food.

"I won't! I'm not. I mean! No!"

_Maker, that was ridiculous._

"Good." Hawke's smile widens, like a tiger licking its lips before a particularly scrumptious meal. "Keep that mentality."

Now Cullen is sure. Part of the gossip vine is actually right. The Amell family is a curse on the land of Thedas. Descendants of the Tevinter Imperium or the First Magisters, maybe even the Archdemons. It_ totally _makes sense.

"… has been found. But he has attacked me." And, like those who go against Hawke, the person is likely feeding worms in that moment. Wait. He kept talking...? Who is dead now? What? "That was the information I had to give you. I trust you will inform Meredith. Now, if you'll excuse me. I have a couple of errands to run before I retire for the night."

His look says 'and don't you forget IT'.

Cullen's says 'I really don't know who died but I sure hope it wasn't me'.

"Oy! Commander!" Diana comes out of nowhere into his right side as Hawke stalks away, her blonde hair spilling around her, framing the robe she dislikes using, the red color which she says doesn't fit her, as much as the title _Senior Enchanter_ doesn't. "What was that all about?"

The second member of her family threatening him. Ahah. Ah.

"Nothing."

"Really?" She sounds incredibly skeptical.

_No._

"Yes. Weren't you speaking with Anders?"

"Eh. He thinks I'm a blemish on the name of the mages everywhere because I don't mind the Circle. It makes any conversation a bit one-sided. Or violent. Mostly violent." Amell stops herself for a moment, assuming a lightly pensive expression before shrugging. "And I think my breast is all black and blue by now."

Modesty isn't covered in the Amell household. Otherwise he wouldn't have to avoid looking down while she massages said area of the body.

"Where are you staring at?"

Her hand falls to the side, his eyes return to her face. Why would Hawke think he is interested in her? Amell is not someone to be interested in. She is weird. And dangerous. And crazy. And has breasts, interestingly enough. "Nowhere. I don't really like him. You do well to keep away."

Anyone else would roll their eyes; she snorts like a pig. "You don't like a lot of people, grump. Change of subject, I need you to take my table inside."

"Don't you mean help you with the table?"

Amell is a curse on the land, a human Blight, someone who no one can keep track of, much less him and certainly not because he _wants_ to. He doesn't like her. He barely tolerates her.

"No, I'm very sure I meant for you to take it inside."

A curse. Definitely one. She is his curse, though.

_Oh. Crap._

The second his mind formulates those words, that it archives them into the 'big-damned-clue' file with everyone else's comments – with Greagoir's worry, with Irving's easiness in sending him out, with Hawke's not-at-all-subtle threats – adding a few wisps of light around for clear recovery of information at a later date, Cullen feels like he has just been kicked around as a ball by a couple of golems. His hand slaps against his forehead and covers his eyes; the loud smack resounding painfully through the empty courtyard. His curse? _His_? She is _his_? Since when?

_Since you visited her cell_.

That doesn't fit. He had tried getting her killed after.

_Since she beat the crap out of you?_

No, that can't be. He can't like the woman for _using_ him as a punching bag. And is his conscience asking him? Isn't that a whole new level of crazy?

_Pretty much,_ his mind hums happily. _Since she came back to the Tower and you ran away like a frightened little girl._

Sort of.

_With pigtails._

Yes. Sounds about right.

_And a flowery dress._

Maybe he can put a stop to this now.

_And a matching doll._

Now. Thank you.

_Ah, damnit. _Between his fingers, he watches green eyes come closer, her hand opening the fringes he's using for observation wider, her face contorted in an expression which is her mixture of annoyance and curiosity, tinged with a little worry; a strange blend she tends to use around him when her _happy due to popular demand_ isn't on. And his head hurts, migraine filled, pulsing and he's confused and _certain_; worrying still while half of him wants to grab that hand and the other hollers how it'd be best to slap it away, to get her out of Kirkwall before this settles further. Only he doesn't want that.

Realization hurts like a bitch.

"Why are you hitting yourself, you moron?"

Might be from that too but it is mostly the realization.

"You should… get in, alright? I need to go somewhere."

If Diana finds it weird how he mutters a simple 'goodnight' and takes off running (away), she says nothing. She has no time to. Before her mouth opens, Cullen is already half through the door and vaguely in the direction of Lowtown.

Realization tastes better with something equally as bitter. Like the entire Hanging Man's alcohol storage.


	19. She is cornered

**Author's note: **I think my sense of humor's taking a vacation. And this is largely a filler. I'll see if I can get the next one with an actual bit of action instead of... nonsense. Hopefully you haven't all given up on this story :(

**In this chapter: **A Templar tries to be a normal person. Diana doesn't like it.

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**019.**

It's midnight. The Chantry's bells have just begun to ring the twelve times which announce the late hour, the Gallows are nicely closed up and Diana is getting her things together so the Templars won't confiscate them or yell at her for being tardy. They know they aren't supposed to – she does have a fancy little permission to work herself to death; thank you, Irving, for accepting her request and adding then reports to her monthly workload – but Templars are known to do whatever strikes their mood. Vellums are carefully folded underneath her fingers, her quills arranged to the side, books pilling one over the other until morning. It's in the only thing for which Diana has a proper method, organized and meticulously followed.

It is exactly midnight when the last vellum is placed down. Diana rubs her eyes, tired due to the many hours reading Avernus' chicken scratch of a handwriting, and dreams of her uncomfortable bed. It is the moment of the day in which she longs the most for Ferelden. Her Tower is chilly, comfortably so, every stone smooth by the feet of all the mages who lived there before her, her new bed huge for someone who has bunked with the other apprentices for all her life. It's so very much _Ferelden. _Little things, little comforts. The mage stretches on her stony chair until every joint creaks like a badly oiled junction and gets up, walking vaguely in the direction of her ever so uncomfortable stone slab. The Templar which keeps an eye on her nods as she passes – an involuntary movement due to the nap he's taking while upright. Definitely not a greeting.

"Good night, Ser! I hope you sleep nicely, Ser! Do not stay up incredibly late, Ser!"

He jumps in his place in a splash of metal grinding and loss of composure. Mother did tell her she was supposed to have a soft and calm voice, fitting for a lady. Sadly, mother didn't raise her all the way and she's as far from being a lady as Hawke, who lacks the necessary parts for the job. …there's an insult against her somewhere in that sentence.

"Good night, Senior Enchanter," the Templar spats out, rubbing his ears as if that can clean her screech from his memory.

He will be able to, eventually. Until morning, at least, when she will get up around six and burst his eardrums again. Templars. She could be out of the Circle and would still adopt one. It is a sort of domestic animal all on its own, perfect for entertainment to those with a good head on their shoulders. Only, note to these. Templars are not to talk to, only to laugh at. Talking takes them too much time and energy and everyone will end up grey before the first '_vade retro_, abomination' is uttered.

Last duty of the day performed (_it's for his own good, really!_), Diana starts the way to the mages' cells_. Quarters_, _quarters_, she has to remember they're supposed to be rooms or she'll slip in front of someone who can get her a real cell. That'd suck. Her feet move just a little bit quicker. The sooner she gets up, the sooner she finishes up her work, the sooner she leaves Kirkwall.

"Amell."

That had been the plan, at least.

Diana has one foot on the first step of the stairs when a hand rests on her shoulder and tugs her back. Her own raises in instinctual self-defense – _Thanks, Blight, Uldred, Jowan, People Who Hate her…_ – the words for a fireball teasing her lips until she finds herself nose to armored chest. Her nose finds that to be uncomfortable and raises, her eyes following and then blinking, as the image they receive is a little on the odd side. There is a face, which is expected since plate mails don't wander around by themselves. And it is the Commander, so no one who'll kill her without an actually reason. Only.

It seems rather red. A little wobbly. And, she discovers when she has to reach for the banister, the hand on her shoulder is, in fact, searching for support, not to keep her still. Her mouth opens lightly as her brain runs forward and tries to connect the dots in something other than a six year old's artwork.

It's not working just right.

_No,_ her mind supplies numbly,_ he wouldn't. He doesn't have the stones for that. And he's repressed, not to forget. There's no way in Thedas that the man would actually cut loose and do what any normal sane person would do on a weekly basis._

He breathes somewhere above her and several of her brain cells drop dead instantaneously. Impossibility or not, his alcohol breath can fell a small bronto.

_Which is fetching, man, very fetching._

Cullen's drunk. Diana allows herself to realize this fact in a sort of torpor, watching those bright red spots on his cheeks grow and shift in a manner that seems highly uncomfortable. And she's not saying slightly tipsy or mildly inebriated either. He is downright _pissed_. Totally smashed. _Completely_ on a bender. The only event she can compare it to is when Greagoir's berry tea got spiked – or, to be precise, replaced by a red wine-water mixture on a 1:10 ratio by unknown parties – and the man forgot to actually taste before gobbling it all up.

This is worse though. Cullen looks way past Greagoir's '_why is there a monkey (Jowan) in the library'_ state. He is completely drunk. And, incidentally, leaning carefully towards the flight of stairs behind them, hence the support. Diana looks back and spends the next three and a half seconds judging the height of the steps, how long they go and where exactly Cullen would stop if a fall occurred. The wall fifty or so steps away seems the most likely spot – _in_ it rather than against it.

To Save or not to Save.

_Well._

He gave her family to treasure and loads of gold by attachment. He also makes her life funnier and is an excellent target. Also – and _most importantly_ – if the Captain falls down the stairs, he's likely dragging her with him and she's not about to die over someone else's stupidity.

Diana grips his arm, halting another sway; one slightly stronger which would, undoubtedly, end with his body on stone and impersonating a rotten tomato.

He finds this to be a perfect setting. His hand rests more heavily on her shoulder, then his entire arm and weight no little mage is supposed to carry because she's damned sure he forgot he has legs and is using her as crutches! Head lulls carefully from side to side, blinking very slowly when he notices that there is someone actually touching him (and she means someone solid, not some figment of his imagination).

"Amell." Or she supposes he is saying in the mist of all the mumbling. "You're two people."

There's no one to notice her features so Diana allows her eyebrow to rise ever so slightly. "Am I?"

"Mhm. One here." He prods the empty side by her right. And then sticks his hand somewhere on her left. "Another here. Did you get possessed? Is this… new magic?"

Not really. It's called the wonders of intoxication and is seriously old as time. And whores.

"I didn't. You did though."

His face scrunches up comically and he leans close, still blinking like the effort to speak is suddenly too much for his two non-alcoholized brain cells.

"I did what?"

Diana is tired beyond words. It's late; she should be passed out on her rock-hard coffin— read as bed – ages ago. As she isn't, the mage decides pleasantly (and that fact is now of his entire damned responsibility for acting like a drunkard), there is no way she isn't taking some sort of amusement out of this particular episode. Quickly, her mind delves into quick calculations of how much bullshit she can feed him in order for him to shed clothes and sleep in his usual watch post. Or mounting any of the statues outside. Whatever is easiest and most embarrassing.

"Got possessed, oh yes," the woman continues (almost gently; it should make all sorts of alarms go off in his head had he been decent and not bothering her), steering him in a direction that may be nearing the courtyard. "Pride demon. Very pleasant and polite. Been getting a kick out of deceiving Meredith when you're half asleep."

"But I'm not a mage." His confusion keeps growing and his apparent age plummeting. Two more minutes and he'll be grabbing her hand to be lead. "That's not possible."

"Hawke says that really doesn't matter nowadays. Demons get all sorts of new meat suits around here." Now that she thinks about it, Hawke does defy a lot of preconceptions. Like the Warden. Like a drunk Knight-Captain. "You also got a sex change."

"I…did?"

Maker bless (her) the man, he looks suspiciously willing to believe her. Is this a fantasy someplace? Men are weird creatures. Who knows, maybe deep down, hidden behind all that repressing of his, Cullen always wished to have boobs. It sure explains the red satin panties in his drawer he hasn't burned yet.

Yes. She entered his room. It's her prerogative as his tormenter.

"Of course you did," Diana says with a straight face – though honest to Maker, she could have been laughing her ass off and he wouldn't have noticed. "You can check later on. In private. While I'm not around. Preferably when I'm back in Ferelden."

Cullen gives her a very slow nod.

"You are sure? You aren't…not having decei…deceva…" The pause extends comically, complete with slightly twisted eyes. "Fooling me!" He finishes victoriously.

Spiking his tea would have to happen on a regular basis.

"I would _never_." _I already did_. "Now let's get you outside, sir. I mean inside, ma'am."

Everything is fine and dandy, deadly amusing indeed, when Diana remembers this isn't like her Tower. In that place, she would have been able to wander around at night without meeting anyone she couldn't bullcrap to death. It is the good thing the Blight had brought them. A more lenient Knight-Commander (as the entire population of the Tower had already gone through one hell of a trial by fire). In Kirkwall – in wet, complicated, prejudiced Kirkwall – reigns Meredith.

And Hawke. And the Viscount does have some say in a few matters. But mostly Meredith.

And annoyingly, Meredith is like a beggar. Always pops out when you least expect it to. So it stands to reason that she would pop out in the exact moment in which Diana doesn't need her, when she's dragging a nearly comatose Knight-Captain and there is little way the situation will be read in her favor. Beggards usually don't pop out inside a Makerforsaken armor though and hell if Diana is going to touch the topic of how scary (and insane) the woman looks with that longsword!

Awesome. She still argues with herself when scared.

"What is going on here!"

Meredith of Kirkwall. Person whose questions automatically sound like orders.

Diana feels her luck metaphorically jumping out of her shoulder onto the floor, a little wave on a chubby face before it runs out of the city as fast as its short legs can take it. Booze by osmosis. That's new. She tries to appear dignified but it's honestly hard when the Knight-Captain is weighting her in one side and the Knight-Commander is glaring her half to death on the other.

Andraste takes some pity on her messed up soul. Cullen tries to straighten and, while his breath can still cause several small countries to abandon Thedas, his eyes stop being crossed and he looks half sane and decent.

"I don't need pastries, ma'am."

Shame he had to start talking.

"What's with the hat?"

And point.

"It looks like someone pitched a tent in the wrong place."

And, apparently, lose any mind-mouth filter.

Meredith's expression doesn't change; it remains that same neutral mask which frightens mages and Templars alike. Her eyebrow, however, is twitching so much it looks like it's having its very own heart attack. Diana is half expecting her to call out for the death patrol and light them both on fire in that hallway.

"What is wrong with you, Captain?" As if that's not obvious enough. "Are you out of your mind?"

"I am not pla… ple..prestered! Not drunk! I'm not drunk! Tell her, Amell."

Interrupt this? Is he kidding? Entertainment doesn't come that easily into the Circle. But the Captain gives her a pleading look – bit lopsided and rather twisted – and Diana gives in. Even though she doubts her amazing bullshitting skills can change this. It'd be like hiding a dragon with an umbrella.

"He had a very bad reaction to a medicine, Knight-Commander," the enchanter attempts, rather politely, rather unbelievably. "Very very bad rash in a rather uncomfortable place. I had to use every odd poultice in my bag only they reacted together and. That's why he's acting like…"

"An uncoordinated buffoon?" _Weird? Fun? Stupid? All of those plus suicidal?_

She's agreeing with the Knight-Commander. The Knight-Captain is drunk. If this is an Alternate Universe why isn't she an Empress and living in a big ass castle somewhere?

Meredith stares at her face, measuring her feeble excuse with the sharpest touch of Irving when evaluating her written tests. Diana is sure she knows what's going. But it's late, they're all tired and there's really no way to blame the mage of this mess. Well, she's sure there is. It's just that there's likely a huge amount of paperwork involved with killing off a mage of another Circle.

Eyebrow stops twitching and the Templar visibly collects herself.

"Take him to his quarters, Senior Enchanter," Meredith orders bluntly. "Or, if you are unable, call one of his colleagues to help you. In the morning, make sure to tell this… to tell the Captain is to see me and explain what has taken place here." _Yes. I'm not to blame. Keep that mindset_. "Maker help me, I just knew he would be trouble from the first day." That last bit sounds like a comment to herself and it's so odd to have it said about her amazing tree-up-his-ass Commander but they're both breathing and the woman is walking away, obviously not yet planning on killing the both of them. She doesn't care how bad his reputation is. They are really breathing.

"Well," Diana whispers. "That was fun. I wonder how long it'll take for her to think we should be turned into mindless shells."

Cullen remains uncoordinated, in his own world. His eyes stray from Meredith's back to Diana's face and his thoughts are impossible to read. He looks far more sober, focused on her expression instead of her lower body or breasts. He also looks _sad_ and worried. Later is normal and expected when near her. There's always the probability she says yes to a change of sheets and ends up with a Pride brat pushing its way into her brain. So when around her, he is worried. But the first, that one is new. And it makes her… she doesn't know what it makes her but it's seriously not good when there's an urge to pat his disgusting looking blonde hair.

"I don't like you! I don't!"

Urge to care chopped to pieces. Without thinking, Diana pulls her arm back, takes her shoulder from underneath his and watches with an womanly sort of satisfaction as he crumbles to the floor in a mess of tin cans, chain mail and stupid male.

"I like me enough for the both of us!" She snaps out resentfully. "But next time you're a bastard, I'll start snipping off body parts. _Comprende?_"

There are no stairs to throw him off so the mage decides leaving him right where he is will satisfy her vengeful vein quite well. Screw him, screw Meredith, she's seriously getting out of Kirkwall because there is no real reason to hang around someone who'll get her dead. One dainty little foot smashes one of his hands before she stomps away and his muffled groan follows her all the way to her bed, the bastard. A little like her own personal lullaby.

Diana sleeps like a rock after that.

Cullen wakes in the morning with a dozen dragons trying to claw their way out of his head, weird looks from Apprentices and Templars alike and a neat pile of Censourship notes waiting on his desk. Without remembering, he knows one thing. It is Amell's fault.

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**AN.** – '_Vade Retro'_ is latin for 'step back' or 'go back' and it's used as a prayer of protection, like 'step back, demon/devil'. In this case, it's also used by the author to bash the forth wall to smithereens. That and I attach Tevinter to Latin just as I attach Antivan to Spanish.


	20. He is worried

**Author's note: **Let's face it, when you take four (five?) months to get a chapter done, there's something wrong with your inspiration. In my case, work and studies disrupted it. Very busy at the moment and the present drivel has been done almost one paragraph at a time (which explains the choppiness). Still, I have received a couple of reviews I haven't been able to reply due to the reviewers being anon. Guys, I am very grateful and happy you enjoyed (enjoy?) this and I am doing my best to finish it. But again, fanfiction is taking a bit of a background role in my life because, sadly, it won't pay my bills :( (awww). Anyway, I'm back, enjoy, hope it's not horrible and the next will come in five months! ... God, I hope not. Holy, look at the 20th chapter.

Cookie for whoever catches the 'how i met your mother' reference.

**In this chapter: **Hawke's always clean, Cullen's always in trouble and Diana explodes things.**  
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**020.**

What the hell's wrong with this blasted city?

Things have gone to every little dark corner of the Fade. All the confusion, the fires, the fights in every corner, the running people who keep screaming in every street (which is smart, it doesn't call the attention of Qunari at all, keep going), spell it for Cullen. Things are bad. Very bad. Extraordinarily, amazingly, Hawke-esque-ly bad. He has seen a lot of things since arriving to the city but bloody uprising had not managed to fall on his lap just yet.

"Captain? What do we do?"

He knows what he would like to do. Give them Greagoir's 'you're an inarticulate idiot' stare ™, a week washing initiates' underwear and not answer stupid questions. There's no time for either (shame) and even if the question is stupid and his recruits are morons, they can suffer later.

"Run and fight." Or die. Hopefully not on his watch.

Paling color of the second recruit tells Cullen he might have forgotten to use his inner voice.

The Captain can't say there had been no warning. Hawke had informed everyone and their mothers in all the ways his practical mind could come up with, including going up to the Viscount while surrounded by dead Qunari bodies and yelling in his face that the Qunari were _Not Pleased_! And when Qunari were _Not Pleased!_ things died. Especially things like everything outside their compound.

Unfortunately, his boss lost more time with possible blood magic done over the preparation of salads and other hazardous events in the Circle kitchen than paying attention to a possible war brewing. And the Viscount, ah, well. The man had never been too proactive even before his kid got killed.

"What are you doing, you idiot?" He yells to the Antivan merchant as he barrels through, trying not to think how Amell-ish he sounds when pushed to the edge. "Get inside and barricade your doors."

Now, his city is literally on flames, Meredith is nowhere to be found and he is cursing the stupid, moronic and incredibly senseless idea to leave the Gallows in the first place.

Cullen doesn't hesitate in leaving Lowtown. In a little corner of his mind, he knows he needs help. And if he needs help – _capable _help – it's not Meredith he needs watching his back. It's Hawke. Or, considering he's on a roll where it comes to honesty, the Amells. The first is stupidly skilled. Hawke has been meddling in the city's business with a steady hand and more magic than absolutely necessary for years and he is oddly good at it. Amell,_ well,_ he's half convinced he'll find her either blowing up Qunari or having tea with them.

He hopes she remembered poison.

Worry makes him run through Hightown, downright terror pushes him further when his breathing becomes constricted and painful – she will be able to heal it, he knows, and that pushes him even more. Cullen's tired of being left in the sidelines as things happen.

The Keep's courtyard is smoking when the Templar finally arrives.

It's also covered in dead Qunari bodies, stall remains, fruit and the scent of stale blood which permeated the Tower after the first hours of fighting. Directly on the other side of the square, rests a small group of mages, surrounded by the Templar forces he couldn't find and his own boss. Hawke stands by their side, a little apart – his brain breathes in relief – and no Amell nearby – his heart stops running as it crashes against his ribcage.

She is inside with the others. In the Gallows. She wouldn't be outside; that would be far too dangerous. Even as he thinks the words, Cullen knows he is lying with every tooth in his mouth. Or is that mind? The Templar rubs his face, hoping for some stable ground underneath his feet.

"Knight-Captain."

Which brings him to Hawke. He would like to say Meredith would bother to see he is up and breathing but she is, once again, locked in a staring contest with the First Enchanter and arguing in the middle of a Qunari uprising while noblemen and women are dragged to be slaughtered.

_I don't know them_, he thinks absently_, I don't. Please don't think I'm like them._

Maker. Does this mean he has to separate a grown man and woman? Isn't that demeaning for a Templar Captain?

…

Hawke can do it.

Said dark haired mage approaches calmly, staff held tightly between his fingers and hair impossibly unruffled. It occurs to Cullen that he has yet to see the man acting anything less than perfectly controlled and poised. This wouldn't annoy him – nor Gerard's pristine appearance after all the fighting he has been doing – if Cullen wasn't trying to ignore that the slight odor of blood and sweat and decomposing dead animals that's chasing him since the Docks.

Stupid mage. Stupid magic. Maker damned Qunari.

"Have you seen her on the way? Diana," Gerard adds just to make sure his frail Templar mind can understand who he's talking about. Amells believe he can't reach the intelligence of a mentally impaired ogre. It's true. They told him so. "Orsino said he saw her fighting near the Chantry. She has not been seen since."

Sit tight and wait. Is it that hard?

A sigh slips through his lips unnoticed, exasperation warring with worry. All the while, Hawke's murky eyes never leave his face, his bird-like features harsh and weathered under the dying light. He looks every bit the warrior Cullen has learned to respect the past months. He also looks tired, says that bit of him who has seen Amell's cousin, Gerard, and not Hawke. Sad, worried and on the edge.

Still. Perfectly dressed like he has just left the bedroom.

Bastard.

"Find her for me," the mage requests – _orders_ – simply. "I'll do my best with the other issues."

Finding Amell instead of dividing two power-wielding-hungry children and defeating a horde of giants? Why does Hawke get the simplest task?

Git.

"I should be by Meredith. Amell is likely protected."

"Are you completely certain?" Gerard presses. "Would you be able to fight without thinking about her? Without wondering if she's safe?"

Know-it-all.

"Fine," he snaps before signaling his two recruits – idiots – closer. "Take these two, they will help." Likely to blow up the Keep instead of saving it but hey, maybe they'll take out Qunari during the commotion.

Meredith-shaped conscience pushed aside, Cullen is off and running towards the Chantry before Hawke can voice 'I'm killing them in the first dark corner'.

The streets look much like the ones he has seen in Lowtown; destruction in every corner, fires eating away whatever rubble left. The unexpected silence bothers him though, as well as the lack of enemies, as well. Not all Qunari would concentrate on the Keep, that would be a bad tactical choice. The smartest pattern of action would be to take over the three seats of power in the city: Gallows, Keep and Chantry.

Where are the ones reaching for the Chantry?

Cullen needs to reach the last alley before he starts tripping up on the bodies he expected to find alive and kicking. From the looks of it, whomever Amell is with was threatening enough to call attention, so much that the enemies converged into the square like an ant line following bread crumbs. The Knight-Captain follows each disgusting little (big) one, up to the larger square which precedes the staircase and the Chantry itself.

That's where he finds her.

Amell is on the upper left corner, back against a wall, a staff which isn't hers on her hands – _kleptomaniac_ – happily slashing Qunari survivors with all the enthusiasm of a kid in a fair – _serial killer_ – while being careful enough not to get too much blood on her immaculate red robes.

How do Amells do that?

"You're late!"

Relief races through his bones, hard enough to almost take his breath away, strong enough to make him forget he isn't supposed to feel it in the first place. Luckily, her (happy) complaints bring him right back to where he is needed. Cullen's sword is in his hands before his mind can finish thinking about the situation.

"I would be here sooner," Cullen yells as his blade sinks into the first opponent. "But someone saw it fit to disappear." And then a second. "Instead of keeping by everyone else. No. You just had to get yourself away from anyone who could watch your back."

"Says the one who was nowhere near to help out. Your Templars were running around like."

"_Meredith_'s Templars."

"Headless chickens."

Diana doesn't look at him and she doesn't need to. The aura of a spell slipping on his skin is telltale sign that she's paying attention. They fall back into a pattern that had been written by disaster, back in Ferelden. Without her armor or sword – _his_ sword, woman, it's still his sword – Amell takes the backstage, his back a comfortable shield from incoming blows as her magic runs without restraint. It's the same kind she used in the Tower once upon a time; stronger, as violent as ever.

It's her and him again and it feels right. Maker, he's a sap.

Cullen doesn't know how long they spend in this manner. Only that it must not be that long because, eventually, the tide of attackers dwindles and he begins to breathe on his own, instead of depending on Amell's spells to keep him going.

Amell, that one waits until there is silence before pulling his shoulder down and poking her head over it to see, all the while keeping him safely as a shield. For one moment, he swears her brow is furrowed, eyes narrowed and dangerous – _deadly_ dangerous.

His body takes a step back, his brain yells 'You did something wrong, back to the Docks!' and his stomach falls somewhere around his feet. This feeling lasts as much as that upset expression and Cullen is damned sure she has never scared him as much as in that moment. When it fades – his brain deciding Lowtown's safe enough –, it is replaced by a smug smile. He can almost hear her speak.

_I did this. Smoke? Destruction? Dead and smashed all around? I did it._

He forgot. Poison is subtle. Explosions are fun.

"Why you weren't with the others?"

Amell shrugs before stretching, unladylike cracks sounding as she pops her neck from one side to the other. There are no winces accompanying the movements and there's a freshness to her which makes no sense considering the situation. She looks safe. She is safe. He leans over and grips a corner of her robe, just in case she's ready to bolt into another life threatening situation.

"Tiny band came this way. Carver wanted to be a big man and investigate only he's a very dumb not-blond person and Hawke would get upset if he croaked. Leona and I came after."

Yet Amell's alone. Maker help him. She killed them and ate the bodies!

"They're checking up on the Grand Cleric."

Maker, he needs to sleep. Cullen's sure he hasn't done a ton of effort – except running and fighting, all in a day's work – but his body feels like lead and, now that the worry has subsided, he's tired and the relief to sinks in like an Orlesian battleship facing an ogre.

If the mage notices, she's doing nothing to fix the issue.

"You look like crap." Or doesn't care, there's also that. They lose a moment watching each other, lost in their own thoughts. He has no idea what she's wondering but he's pretty sure his circle the complicated wish to hug her merely for being alive – which is a bad idea for so many reasons. Thankfully, he gets no chance to throw his livelihood out the window.

A Qunari moves by his feet. He's injured, lacking a member or two, more blood than a normal person can do without. The murderous glint in his eyes speaks volumes. If he's going down – well, again – he's taking someone with him. And so his eyes travel from female to male, the nasty little of smile of a villain – _mwahahaha_, resounds through Cullen's mind – before a spear is aimed.

That is all the information the Captain can process. The Templar straightens, knees bending like he's some sort of puppet, and springs himself at the mage, tackling her underneath his body. A painful half a second passes by in which he realizes that something bad's going to happen, that something's going to hurt and _damn, he dumb_ before the whole wall behind collapses on his back.

Every hint of air goes 'whoosh', out of his body and into the atmosphere as unexpected darkness blackens his vision and curses rip through his ears, a constant litany in Amell's voice. "How do you take thirty seconds to make a mess? It's like you're a blasted kid and can't take two steps without hurting himself!" The words don't filter in though, especially when muttered; they float somewhere above in a bloody haze. They feel painful, almost as much as the walls compressing his bones and the jabbing pain against his back.

Amell's face appears in front of his, obscured but finally silent and unamused.

"We're going to get killed by a wall," she deadpans.

It sounds very ridiculous when she says it like that.

"By a wall. After battling guys thrice my size, it's a _wall _that gets me. Can you get the irony here? Because it's currently smacking me in the face. Or on your back. Mostly on your back."

The mage tries to move but anywhere she can use as escape is currently occupied by his armor. Her movements get more frantic with each passing second, a little like a rabbit caught in a trap.

"We are not going to die, Amell."

"You might survive, you flipping tin can. You're not the one in your pajamas."

"You sleep in robes?"

Right. Stupid questions.

"It's alright," Cullen backtracks smoothly. "I can fix it."

"Don't tell me it's alright! It's not alright! Don't you dare telling me that!" Amell barks, fingers digging between the plates of his armor. It has been a long time since he has seen married couples argue – his own parents' voices far enough for the Templar to forget – so he takes his time to understand he has fallen into the pit of males everywhere by implying she isn't smart enough to understand the situation. "I hate dark places! I hate closed spaces. I hate not being able to breathe right, I hate not being able to move and I hate you because you dumbass, who tackled me against a _crumbling wall_. Quit doddering and get me out of here."

_Oh crap_.

Everyone feels pain. Everyone fears death. _This_ is a personal fear though, the one Cullen reads in her frantic eyes and fast breathing. And knowing her, the last thing Diana wants is for it to be advertised.

Something attached to him is staying underneath this wall. They both know it.

"Amell."

Her eyes are closed tightly, a hint of moisture at a corner, lips firmly pressed together. The flesh against his armor is shaking and he's dead sure it isn't from cold. Her magic spikes with every heartbeat.

"Amell," he tries again. "Breathe in. Calm down." _Don't kill me. "_Think. You can find a way out."

"Hyperventilating. You think."

It would be easier if he wasn't fearing for his life. Cullen tries to move underneath the weight, pushing on both elbows to give the mage a little more space to breathe. The wall is heavier than he can handle though and with every gesture he is pressed more tightly against the woman. Her breathing turns ragged, heavier, more distressed. Close as Cullen is, he can see the way she's constantly swallowing, trying to clear her throat for an elusive trace of clear air. The fear on her features turns her into someone Cullen doesn't know.

"Diana." She forces one eye to open a little, a hopeful green slit and he's the only one there, the only one who can help her except he can't. Again. Why couldn't he have taken an injury from a Qunari blade for her? That spells hero! Not being defeated by a piece of stone. "You lived your whole life in a secluded place. We can get out. You just need to calm down; I have seen you understand concepts that scholars would have…"

Platitudes, that's all he's saying. Cullen exhales slowly, resting his forehead somewhere on her shoulder (shoulder, not chest, just shoulder because he would never make use of this odd situation. Especially when she's this close to murder him). So he changes strategies.

"I can't believe you're afraid of the dark."

Lithe fingers push their way through mail and tighten over flesh unkindly.

"I can still kill you, Templar," she hisses slowly. "No witnesses."

"No, I mean. I understand you can't handle this. You're a fragile person. Delicate." Probably. Underneath it all. Dig a little. "Not that intelligent. To figure out a way to get us out of here? It'd be too much."

That green slit widens, opens to show the eyes he's so familiar with. Angered. Murderous.

"Well? Should I get someone else to help? Someone less bothered by a little darkness?" Her pride stings, visibly burns. "Should I call for a Templar?" And the last nail gets stuck in his virtual coffin. If looks could blast things apart, half of him would be riding the wind in the direction of Orlais, all to the melody of _I need no goddamned Templar_. Amell stops glaring at him long enough to glare at the wall which keeps them prisoners, certainty and anger replacing every trace of fear. This is the Amell he knows (and likes), sure of herself and dangerous.

Her hands stop digging into his ribs and slide to the stones behind his head. Tentatively, slowly as if testing for a weak point. It doesn't last. Her movements turn more frantic, more violent and he's sure she's mumbling something about _danger _and _perhaps this will work _but he stops listening after the words _yep, blow it up. _A flash of red runs through the skin against his, energy builds up, familiar energy, deadly energy and he's about to complain, ask what in the world she's doing before he's deafened by an explosion right above his shoulders. Following minutes are spent waiting for bricks and stones to keep falling – especially on him – while avoiding the persistent stone dust which fills the air and the piercing ringing in his ears.

At least they're free. Free is good? Another piece of wall hits him over the head, pushing Cullen to realize he preferred the wall.

"Was that absolutely necessary?" He asks when Amell's energy recedes into a faint trickle.

"Yes, it was. I am tired of being walled off because of an idiot," her yell tramples the part of his brain still unaffected by the explosion. "Now get off me or I'm blowing you up next. Oh. Hi?"

The last part is said in a sedated tone of voice – clearly not to him, Maker forbid she realizes he got them out, technically. She looks up and smiles. Cullen looks up and grimaces as Carver and a female mage (Leona?) come closer. When he looks down, there is Amell, still bloodied and ragged in strategic places.

"This isn't what it looks like!" He tries feebly, all of him jingling armor as he jumps from the mage and scrambles as far as his pride dictates.

_Because that excuse worked so well with Owain._

"It looks like you're lying on my cousin," Carver informs him unhelpfully.

_Then it is exactly what it looked like._

"What happened?" The female inserts. "Why is the Templar coping a whole bunch of feels?"

_I was not!_

"We almost got killed by a wall. You?"

"We weren't going to die! It was just a couple of bricks."

Both females ignore him when he finally speaks up, Amell pushing herself off the floor and patting her clothes with a little more violence than necessary. The dust settles in her hair and skin, giving her the impression of having aged twenty years in the last twenty minutes.

"Grand Cleric scolded us for noise."

"Wall's an easier way to go."

"_Diana_."

"Shut it, Carver. You know I'm right."

Anyone who knows Elthina would. Might be the exhaustion but the next moments go by in a blur. There are no more enemies in front of him as the Knight-Captain follows the trio of children through Hightown, bickering loudly even when First Enchanter appears, Meredith at his heels and a small mass of cowardly noblemen right behind. Sometime after, Hawke appears, bloodied and slightly worse for wear.

Amazing hair though, what's with that?

"Hey! You're done already," Diana comments as soon as she sees him, rejuvenating spell ready on her fingertips. "Did you slice the Arishok's junk for me? I remember you promising…"

"Yes, I know," says the newly christened Champion because this is totally a normal conversation. "It was the only decent target. Less armor. It worked too. Can't yap about honor when you're busy groaning."

"You're crazy, Hawke."

There. Someone who shares his opinion. If female and mage, who is this woman anyway?

"Crazily awesome," Amell corrects.

"How about frightening? Disturbing also works."

"You're a pansy, Leona."

Amells. They're in a class of their own.

Their chatter bringing normality back and scares everyone else away. It's soothing to listen to Diana's voice, to Hawke's blunt replies and to the new girl's comments in between Carver's bitchiness. Not even the second female looks out-of-place. Leona smiles placidly as she stares at Hawke, a little grin which feels oddly insulting. Her hair is darker than Diana's could ever be but anything's lighter when compared to the males by her, chopped instead of cut as if she cares little for its appearance, blue eyes instead of green, roughly the same height and older, definitely older than the Senior Enchanter. It seems familiar. So familiar that it doesn't clash with the other three's distinct Amell-ish insanity.

It's very suspicious.

_Seriously, Maker? _Cullen thinks dryly. _Seriously? Didn't you think this was grounds for a Revolution?_

"When did you find out you had more family in the Kirkwall?" He asks Diana as soon as she's done begging Hawke to turn the Seneschal into a soprano.

The blond menace doesn't bother to be surprised he managed to figure it out. "Couple of months. She's an Amell and we're stuck in the same bat cave. Hard to miss."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She told him how many times her roommate was having intercourse. Couldn't she have slip more important things like a damned sister?

"You would have fled and I didn't feel like chasing wherever you would run," the mage bluntly. "When you're done with your teenage rebellion and trying to kill me with helmets and walls, Ferelden. That's where we're going."

"I wouldn't have fl—"

Amell gives him a look, blonde eyebrows arched in an expression that is all disbelief. Her fingers tighten around his gauntlet, a mother keeping her child right where he is supposed to be. A possessive child holding onto her favorite toy, more like.

"I'm not trying to kill you," he corrects.

"Eh," fingers relax but don't let go. "I wonder sometimes."

So does he. A lot, actually. Whether or not Antiva is in need of Templars.

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_**Extra A.N.** - Leona is, as explained in previous chapters, one of the Amell siblings sired by Revka. In this case, she was based in ChampionTheWonderSnail's lovely character, Alyce Amell because well, I adore the character and it's my way to show my appreciation._


	21. She is dragged

**Author's note: **I took less than a month (!) No one's more amazed than I. Again, thank you for the support, guys. I hope you continue to enjoy this drivel. It could definitely use more correction but my brain can't handle it anymore.

Random cookies for whomever gets who the surprise character is. Champ, you don't count. Find the Madagascar reference instead. And also, thanks to her for the beta-like reading before this chapter saw the light of day. Reference to Ventisquear's sweet Air Surana simply because _I wanted to_. And he's my default Surana nowadays.

**In this chapter: **We all puzzle about how any mage can say yes to a demon. Oh and fighting. **  
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**021.**

Mages are disappearing from the Circle. It always happened – Anders – some of them caught easily enough – Anders – or after a few months enjoying the dubious attractions of the outside world – Anders – usually by doing something stupid like not running directly into Tevinter – _Anders._ Hawke worries too much over the subject – she doesn't need to wonder who's planting the idea of conspiracy into that practical mind of his so it's a pretty good thing she exists, Diana concludes. Otherwise there would be a revolution just begging to happen.

"I still don't understand why I'm here."

Here is walking by the Knight-Captain. Practically bull rushed, really. He entered her cell, stammered some thing or another for a couple dozen minutes – while she went about her business as usual, there's something to be said about not being stupid enough to wait for his backbone to make an appearance – and ended up dragging her out.

It's testimony to his hard-earned reputation how he can walk out of the Gallows with a Senior-Enchanter in tow, staff and all. Meredith must really trust him. Amazing though. The crazy woman doesn't look sane enough to trust the reflection on her mirror (she wouldn't either if said reflection had a horn). That changes when Cullen comes into the equation.

He might be sleeping with her.

Diana's features scrunch up comically, ears deafened by her every brain cell of hers chiming in a lovely chorus of 'eeew's. The very idea of the older woman touching anything with a heartbeat makes her breakfast do a summersault into the wrong side of her digestive track.

"Amell."

Ah, right. Walk. Don't stop in the middle of Lowtown where her pretty staff slash robe slash body might fetch a pretty price. Her brain stops trying to mentally brush itself and request her legs to move. A request for bleach lingers. And sand. Likely some extra nail files and claws to really drag that idea out.

"I understand mages and their families aren't exactly," he hesitates and Diana realizes he has been speaking since the Gallows. _Nod and smile, girls, nod and smile_. "Forthcoming when speaking to a Templar."

Not forthcoming? Try violently and brutally against it, man.

"They won't be any more forthcoming to a Circle mage," the woman comments. They are crossing the dark area of the city without worry, his large steps actually matching her slower ones. The air is crisp and clear in the early morning (or, considering it's a city, clear enough to make you _only _cough while you get used to the stench particles). It's certainly pleasant to be out and about.

"They would speak to Hawke's cousin."

Right, that's a recent development. Normal people would get a reputation somewhere between blowing up Qunari and getting threatened by a wall. She gets one because Hawke stands (all bloody, shiny spiky staff carrying and _stuff_) and gently informs every little Kirkwallian ant of how pleased he is for having his own family's support in these dark times _insert extra bullshit here._ Translation: the mage out of the Circle you see here is not to be offed yet. Everyone knows what Hawke wants, Hawke gets. When he doesn't, bodies get dropped.

Basically, she's in the clear because she's known as a homicidal mage's cousin.

"They might close the door on my face."

"They'd be afraid Hawke came by and brought it and the house down."

Point. When did he turn smart? Diana's eyebrow raises a wee bit in question but her lips remain closed. Better not make him think he can beat her in anything.

They cross the square next to Gamlen's little hovel unhurriedly, a peaceful sort of silence contaminating the space around them. Stones crumble beneath their steps, the dangerous streets lacking even the petty thieves that usually lurk behind every dark corner; not even the usual pretend guards are around (pretend because they might guard but usually try not to do anything which involves effort like, you know, chasing anyone committing a crime).

Diana's deadly sure bad things are going to happen very soon.

That's called Karma, bitch.

The first signal of mess – well, second; first was the silence – is a dwarf. The mage has a glimpse of red haired pigtails as the woman flies by into what ten seconds before had been a wall. Both she and her companion stare uncomprehendingly at the event – just as the family who suddenly has an extra member for dinner at their table. Or is that _on _their table? _In_ their table? – not even remembering to do actually do anything. A small groan is heard from the mix of broken wood and shattered cutlery.

Diana doesn't need to her eyes to know what comes next; her whole body reacts by pure instinct.

Demons oppress the air whenever they come by. Corruption wafts in the very air whenever the cross to the real world. They belong to the Fade. To have them on the waking world is like having a puzzle piece out of place, a black stone on a white pearl necklace, a number when reciting the ABCs. It's wrong. It doesn't fit. The mage which walks into the small square stinks with corruption.

It's the same smell of the Tower.

Her breathing speeds up, her body contracts and her nightmares come to life, they rip apart her mind and leave no other thought than _run, run away, run far_. Suddenly, it's Uldred in front of her, not an unknown mage. It is Jeremy and Margery and Ella and Maker knows who else tried to kill her that day. One would think Kirkwall would have sanitized her against this, made her forget, but it hasn't and it will not; not her and not him.

Cullen pushes her behind his body and completes the scenario as her vision is impaired by a tall expanse of armored back.

Maker damnit, this isn't happening again. She is no longer that Diana who ignored every trace of danger and hid away. She is a different person. She is a _stronger_ person. Steeling herself, the mage jumps from behind the Templar – though, top notch back still; he has been keeping up with his training – and raises her staff high.

"If you think you dragged me out again to get almost killed again, you got another thing coming, Commander!"

There's a pause, a little one, very small as he stares at her face. He has grown too. He's not that stupid –_ green_ – recruit she met. He is the Knight-Captain. He is her Commander – probably because her list of worthwhile Templars is currently at the amazing count of _two._ He is stronger than she gives him credit for.

Still a little on the slow side, though.

Cullen hesitates – he always does when before doing something he'll regret – and shakes his head. _It's useless, Templar. _"After you, Enchanter." His sword leaves the scabbard so smoothly that barely a sound is heard over their breaths, the demon's groans or the dwarf who's fighting pieces of brick.

Diana takes it as permission to explode.

Grinning from ear to ear, a particular spell comes to her lips unbidden and half the square goes up in flames, accompanied by the ever amazing 'die you thing' battle cry. Cullen is already half way through the space when her spell falls, his mind falling into syntony with hers. They're good at this, she reasons, crashing her staff around, spell after spell flooding the air as the Templar digs into man's flesh. They're good but demons don't go down immediately – they never do – and it fights back, power behind entropic spells that she never managed in her short life.

Dwarf to the rescue!

"Who are you to mess me up!"

The previously flying creature pokes her head out of the ruble. Pigtails come out first, then a tattooed covered face, drawings which cover every inch of the darker skin. Her eyes are wider than normal, half way into what a snake's eyes would look like, hazel orbs staring from beneath. Right and it is a female, covered in light, very light armor (terribly Dalish in design) and carrying a large axe.

Extremely large. How can she carry something that large and not kneel over after two steps? It's like a freaking boulder.

"Why is it staring?"

One plus one isn't adding up to two where this woman is concerned?

Diana turns her face back to the fight, no longer very concerned. Fire covers her skin; it sings in her bloodstream, every gesture, every spell casts away that corruption which is her weakest point. And on the other side where she can see him, the Knight-Captain fights the most physical manifestation of the demon; competent and careful. With the dwarf in the struggle, it's not a matter of whether they are going to win or not. It's a matter of when.

Especially since the axe-wielding nutbag passes by her and undertakes the fighting tactic better described as 'hacking away'.

With her entrance, the Enchanter stops attacking, step by step until she's right against a nearby wall. The next battle is hers alone. They aren't mages so they can't feel how the demon starts reaching out, mental claws ripping and gripping for another body to inhabit. Diana feels it slowly digging into her mind. She is the only mage nearby; its last attempt would be with her.

She braces herself, body straight and staring ahead. Proud. Diana can do pride well. Grandfather left her that in spades, a whole amount of pride and the magic he was so disgusted by in her veins.

"_You want nothing? Nothing at all?"_

Demons. They all sound like bad salesman.

"Not really, nope. Nah. Nuh huh."

"_You live in a prison, you walk in chains, you think what you are told, live as you are ordered to, cannot go beyond their words and want nothing? Silly child, there is a whole world outside. So much to see. Do you not want to?"_

Implication of being ridden like a mule throughout Thedas in case of positive answer is written in fine print.

Cullen looks at her from the other side of the square. His sword rests once more in its scabbard, danger over and done with. To him, it is. He can't hear the insidious words, slipping, drifting, finding their place between doubts Diana never touches. The mage smiles up at him, a little grin because everything is fine. Perfect.

"_How about him, mage?_ _Would you not want him? A regular life, a happy one where he doesn't fear you all the time?"_

Magic is part of her body. He would like if she wasn't one, she knows. They could have a normal life if she wasn't one.

"_What would you give for that life, little one?"_

What would she be without magic? A pretty little bauble like her mother? How about Hawke, she wouldn't have Hawke. Or Jowan. Or Leona. She wouldn't put up with Carver. She wouldn't have Cullen. And more than anything, she wouldn't have made the mistakes she did, learned every little lesson and turned into the woman she is today.

Demons are terrible Makerdamned sales_things_. How can they convince anyone?

Diana tells it politely to go screw itself and every other door in the Black City when Cullen reaches her. His expression is determined, the same he has when telling her she's not supposed to raid the kitchen's cabinets at, before and after three in the morning. His hand digs in her arm more strongly than the demon ever could, each finger gripping into her skin. Under his touch, her magic disappears, her legs sag under her, mana and strength fading into nothing.

The demon cannot hold where there is nothing to cling to, especially when the mage it's trying to take a hold of is doing the mental equivalent of jumping up and down on its hands. While laughing. While laughing _hysterically_.

That little bitch tried offering her the Knight-Captain. The _Knight-Captain_. Cullen. As if she would let go of everything for this boy. How stupid was that? It is like offering her own sword or her robes. You can't be tempted by something that's pretty much on the palm of your hand and that poor bastard was practically lives on hers. Even he knows it.

Diana shakes her head at the inanity of demons. H_ow_ can anyone fall for that and turn into blob man? Seriously, let her know because she can't get it.

Not to mention the nipples. And purple. That color only works on Surana.

"Amell?" _Yes. Please step back and stop holding me upright, please. Personal Space_. "W-What's wrong? What happened? Did it say anything to you? Are you all right?"

Demon encounters always break her a bit, no matter how well they always go – _it's all about the no. Think of it as a chastity belt for the well-protected mind_ – and this time is no exception. Her tongue is tied for a while. To that feeling, she joins the surprise born from his help. It shouldn't surprise her, not after all this time but still. It's not every day a Templar.

Wait, no, she can't think like this.

Cullen is not just a Templar. He's the Commander, her little boy all grown up and ready to neuter other little Templars and off some mages. He puts up with her – grudgingly – almost likes her, which is awesome considering it gave him the chance to use words around her. Did she ever mention how proud she is to be able to document this wide extent of human evolution?

"Will the mage stop making googly eyes at the air and get itself off the floor? Everyone else has more things to do than wait for it. And the Templar will continue to stare to the female in the same manner for much longer or should I leave both to continue their activity in peace?"

From all her four foot nothing of height, the dwarf is freaking bloody scary. Much more than the demon could ever be. Might be something to do with that axe which is honestly bigger than her whole body. The Templar steps back, Diana scrambles off to the floor.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Yes, sir."

"Commander, she's obviously female."

"Does that really matter right about now?"

"Big humongous axe. You might want to keep your legs the height they are."

The dwarf sends them both a look that states they are beneath her; so beneath her, in fact, that they might as well be standing at the bottom of the ocean while she makes her way to Haven. Can someone manage to be side by side with this creat... – _ergh – _woman? Keeping her on the right track – _kill only the dark demonic thing, you crazy bitch, only those_ – sounds an Andastrian task.

"I'm taking this with me. It is my prize to collect."

Diana punches the Templar's arm, a subtle indication for him to keep quiet and don't argue. Cullen seems to get it, for once. _Take the stupid mage carcass, woman, go ahead. Keep the creepy chopped body which is now dribbling onto the gut— is she going to collect all the pieces or… oh Maker, stomach._

A strong hand grips hers, maneuvers it gently until it's closed in a loose fist, all wrapped up in larger fingers. Cullen says nothing at all; he doesn't even look at her, eyes straining to keep up with the dwarf's unexplainable routine (gripping body, taking boots out, searching pockets, break staff, why is she checking what remains of the chest again?). He looks bluntly upset about the whole thing.

"If this was a date," she comments absently. "I think it could rate as one of the worst ever. Not that I ever had one. If you don't count Jowan taking me up and down the Tower then abandoning me in the library so we could sniff Lily's skirts."

The tendency to ramble is there – oddities tend to make her mind and mouth run a mile a minute – only more oddness joins the equation as Cullen suddenly freezes. His eyes are wide open, extremely blue, extremely surprised and beyond horrified. His hand releases hers like her skin is pure fire. It is like the idea physically hurts him.

Why does she even try?

Diana sighs and kicks him in the shin before the sheer idea kills him. He should be glad his armor didn't take a leaf out of the Arishok's book or she would take one out of Hawke's and turn him into a soprano.

"I didn't say anything!"

"You just looked like I jumped from beneath your bed dressed in a sheet."

Again come the wide eyes, against his shin goes the foot. He keeps begging for it, really.

"Are you done?"

Cullen raises both hands in a pacifying gesture, meant to possibly tell her that yes, he's done being a moron. Diana scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest; all the attitude of an confident female. He's likely just putting a head start on protection, in case she decides to kick him again.

"Let's just…" his eyes trace every line of their environment, carefully tiptoeing around everything, from floor, to creepy merchant, remains of demonic mage and working dwarf except for _her_. His cheeks are red enough to brighten whichever dark cavern the Old Gods are sleeping and Diana's sure she'd be able to bake something on his skin. Embarrassment's fun. "Go home. Let's go home," he finishes at last. "Huh. Miss?"

The dwarf doesn't look away from her task.

"Go away."

"I just need your na—"

"Go. _Away_."

Axe. Dward. Dead man. Diana tugs Cullen's arm once more, now more urgently. His foolishness is making an appearance again. And here she was, thinking he was evolving.

"Cullen, I'm giving you two choices."

Hm. Did she ever call him by his actual name? Diana can't remember. On a daily basis, she tends to lean towards idiot, Templar, commander and moron. All of them at once. So that's a no, she hasn't. Should she try using it more often? The horrified surprised look on his face isn't back. In fact, his whole expression has smoothed down, a soft, gentle, almost incredibly pleased countenance replacing it. It is sweet, in fact. So much that Diana stomps down on the sudden urge to go 'awwwwww' and replaces it with a _Holy Crap_, _you can be cute. Is this one of those once-in-a-lifetime events_ but mentally, only mentally. Even she, in all her lack of proper social manners, knows speaking this out loud will turn that gaze into a frown and drive that stick all back in.

It's a good look on him. A cute one. A gentle one. It makes her forget he constantly carries a sword around in case mage shish kabob is on the menu. It makes her remember libraries at late hours and embarrassed glances and a man who came by every day while she was trapped behind metal, fearing how he might bring her death and brought her company and words instead.

The woman coughs lightly, clearing her throat. If her voice broke at any moment due to foolish sentimentality, why, she would just hurt herself.

"You either come with me so I can visit Hawke and have tea and cookies and perhaps dinner with my family," _and far away from the murderous dwarf._ "Or we're going up to the Gallows where I'm dragging you to have water and bread with my family. Though I remind you that while Leona's cool, Carver's a little bitch. Hawke's awesome all around."

Besides, no weird dwarf on either place.

"What about…?"

The axe gets stuck on a poor pigeon which happens to wander nearby.

"Right," Cullen backtracks quickly. "We're going now."

They hightail away from the homicidal thing before it tries to sharpen that axe even more on either of their bacon.

It takes her half way to the Hawke Estate for Diana to realize he didn't make her speak with any mage familiar to begin with. Why did he drag her out then? Just for the fun of it? _Oh well_, she thinks, opening her arms to receive Hawke's customary hug, _it's likely not that important_.

Meanwhile in the library, Cullen introduces his forehead to the wall repeatedly. Apparently, intelligence for magical subjects does not equal ability to realize when a man is attempting to woo a woman.

He just can't catch a break, the poor bastard.


	22. He is guided

**Author's note: **And then, it takes other five. Seriously. I will finish this, guys. Anyone still out there? Yes? No?

Also, I nearly called this chapter 'in which is he is bitchslapped into intelligence' but alas, too long.

**In this chapter:** Where we explain what mages deal with. Not in that much detail.**  
**

* * *

**022.**

Plan number two should involve bluntness. If subtle doesn't work, there's really no use to lose time. Those had been Tethras' words.

Tethras is an odd little dwarf. He verges on disturbing 90% of the time, holds his drink better than half the inhabitants of the Hanged Man and is far too close to Hawke for comfort. Unfortunately, Cullen works with people with whom the word 'courting' is used only for gossip purposes. He has no one to request help from - and Maker help him, he is in severe need of help. Who else will he ask? His boss? Meredith might have an incredible mind to deal with Apostates or her own charges (or _mostly_ incredible; he is reaching the conclusion most of her solutions include 'chop first, we'll figure out if the mage is really a blood mage, you know, eventually'). Where it comes to actually woo a mage, he isn't so sure Meredith would be of assistance.

Unless he wants to date a Tranquil, the way Amell would definitely end up once the Knight-Commander got a whiff of this.

He'll get no help from Hawke except to be lose the physical ability to procreate. Carver would laugh at him – until Cullen pointed out the way he had been staring at Ella was one step below stalker-ish, thank you very much. He doesn't know Leona enough to discuss such a complicated subject and, quite frankly, Amells have the tendency to scare the living shit out of him just on principle. Nothing good will come from asking her family.

Tethras it is. Odd or not, the dwarf is one of the few worldly people who might be able to give him good advice while skipping the painful rite of passage which is dying. The one which Hawke will certainly make him live through if informed of this.

Comatose through? Die through? Hm, he'll figure this out eventually.

The dwarf sits in front of him, leather covered hands forming a neat little steeple in front of his face. His elbows rest on the table which separates them and his gaze reminds Cullen strangely of a teacher he had once upon a time. It had involved strangely uncomfortable conversations about his private parts' growth. The memory of that fatidic and horrifying day still makes him break into a blush strong enough to light up a small room.

Unlike that teacher, Tethras doesn't comment on the matter. His hands lower to the table, one over the other, ready to dish out much needed wisdom.

"You're an idiot."

_You're supposed to tell me something Amell doesn't say slash imply every week or so, dwarf._

"Placing aside all the issues between mages and Templars for once," he continues without paying any attention to his inner monologue when he should, _you definitely should_. "Let me try and make sense of this. You know this woman for what, six, seven years now?"

A quick mental calculation ensues. "A bit more? Five or so in the Tower. Then she came here and that'd make…"

Tethras waves his math away with a hand, making it very clear that yes, it was a rhetorical question and any reply is not important. "Yes, a good amount of them, that's great, that's amazing and you are driving the point home, my good Captain. After all this time, the mere idea of pulling her into a room didn't come by? Nice romantic dinner? Grand gesture by a cliff?"

Cullen is served a quick mental image of being thrown off said cliff by mentioned mage, courtesy of his brain.

"You are a good looking man," the dwarf continues. "Weird, yes. Incomprehensible and very naïve." _What now?_ "But good looking. You are also a Templar. And this can be a good thing, even in this subject. If something ever happens with, say, a blood mage, you can protect her."

This is certainly a strike on the plus column in Varric's opinion. It is several strikes on the minus column for Cullen who knows she would murder him if he ever suggested she'd be weak enough not to behead an idiot who nodded yes to a demon. And a few dozen extra strikes for even thinking about suggesting it.

"You also care for her."

Ah. The major issue of this situation. While she's pretty, she's also incredibly careless and his life expectancy has dropped by 50% from dealing with her. Cullen mulls about that fact for some time, eyes fixed on the table. Yes, he does. It might have taken years to admit but he does. He depends on her to keep him afloat in this mad city, especially when he wishes for Ferelden so strongly that his body seems like it's breaking at the seams. She'll explode something of his, eventually. It's a fact. Doesn't mean he wants to lose her.

"All in all," Varric sums up. "She might go for it if you smack her head against a wall before proposing."

The optimism is heartening, really.

"Thanks, dwarf."

"I'm a storyteller, Templar, not the Blooming Rose Mistress. But, if you ask me, I say you got a shot. She did come to Kirkwall after you, not to meet up with Hawke or anyone else." Tethras almost looks kind as he chugs down the rest of his drink and orders two equal ones to replace it. The rest of the time is spent on a serious conversation about what to do next. To be blunt, to get flowers, to get gifts she will like – and he's not sure if giving her spell books will help his already mentioned and battered life expectancy – to stop being a stingy old man and actually get a move on. I mean, how hard can it be to get something to offer a mage? It's a _mage_. It's not like they're overflowing with money and gifts.

That was the advice Tethras had given him under the oath of not whispering a word to Hawke – who would likely make a rerun of his Arishok finishing blowTM – and pretty much everyone else – who would babble to the Champion as soon as he was out the door. His purse would empty faster than a De Lancet's in Lowtown to bribe all those people.

All right. Be a courteous gentleman and give gifts. He can do that. He knows her better than Varric, than her cousins and sister. He knows her longer. So this will work.

As he leaves the tavern, Cullen wonders briefly if he should get an extra armor to fit on top of his before trying this out.

xxxXXXxxx

There is no need to look for the Enchanter, Cullen realizes as soon as his armored feet stomp through the entrance of the building. Wherever there is trouble, she is sure to be and if this isn't trouble with a capital T, he doesn't know what it is.

"Amell!"

Whatever Cullen was expecting to find, this wasn't it. There are no monsters to slay in her place or things to be injured by and look manly while doing so – he cannot catch a break, he just can't. There is, however, a fallen Templar, happily lost somewhere in the Fade considering his expression.

This is very bad.

The Senior Enchanter is standing. Her body shakes from head to toe, anger radiating from her skin so strongly that he is amazed the walls have not begun to give in, cracking underneath the pressure. He is even more amazed that he cannot feel her magic, the way he does every time she gets mad. It always strikes against her control, whispering in the background of his senses, digging its metaphorical nails into his attention. He can't feel it today backing up her anger. Nothing at all.

Situation worsening.

Cullen turns to the Templars behind them, waiting for an explanation which persists in not appearing. Instead, three of them turn their gazes to the floor as if ashamed and then to the wall because the unconscious man on the floor is a very sad sight. Only one meets his eyes with the fierceness of a brat after doing something incredibly stupid. By their feet rests a huge pile of books and vellums and Cullen recognizes without trouble Amell's daily routine in the varied diagrams and scribbled annotations.

"The flipping dumbass sapped my whole magic," Diana hisses from her corner. She keeps trembling like winter has just set beneath her skin and all Cullen can think is how much he prefers when she yells. It takes that deadly edge of her words which always reminds him of the way his jaw had cracked underneath her fingers. It reminds him of Hawke and the Arishok falling to its knees – hands strategically positioned. "What in the freaking fluffy socks of Andraste was he about? Demons? Do I look like I'm possessed by anything? Do I look like a giant walking blob of a cooking accident? Well, do I?"

Considering her face is red, sweaty and there might or not be large pieces of gunk decorating her blonde hair, –for which he has no explanation for – he'll wager a yes.

He'll also wager he'd lose his mini-me if he dares pointing that out so it's better not to bother and, instead, calmly try to change the cold volcano into a small tropical storm. Preferably before he has to explain to Meredith why his voice's pitch turned a few octaves higher.

"Amell."

"One second, I'm busy," Amell kicks the unconscious man deliberately, making all men present take a wide step back. Even in deep unconsciousness, the older Templar cringes. "I seriously want my magic back." She pats her hands on her dress, visibly collects herself and levels a stare that makes him feel two feet tall. "Did you need anything?"

Not to picture himself in the other's place would be an awfully good start.

The Captain is about to say those exact same words when a hand touches his armor and tugs, apparently trying to push him away from the blond haired woman. It is a small, ridiculously young hand which is attached to an arm and then the body of a ridiculously young Templar.

"Captain, this mage."

Of course, the foolish one who didn't avert his eyes. He is barely out of training, Cullen wagers, his beard faint, the touch of a doting mother behind those freckled cheeks. There is self-righteousness flowing out of him in waves, almost enough to drown his amusement but certainly not enough to hide Amell's anger which keeps growing like a tsunami before touching land.

"We have had her under surveillance for weeks now," the boy continues, entering in rant mode. His short body shoots straight up as if that will mean he'll reach Cullen's chin any time soon. His hatred filled eyes are focused on Amell's blonde head, a hatred so deep that the Knight-Captain can almost call him his mirror-image, a moment after leaving that blasted barrier spell so long ago. What are they teaching Templars these days? They were never butchers! "She keeps sending messages; she goes out all the time and her work! Have you seen her work? It is blasphemous, cursed, the Revered mother herself said so!"

The Revered mother of the Gallows would yells 'abomination' at the glimpse of a robe? That Revered Mother? Maker, he leads idiots.

He also sounds like Amell on one of her Templar-are-bloody-idiots rants which is not completely unexpected. No wonder they thought of him as a thrall.

The female mage moves from his side, apparently ready to start yelling at a Templar which is one step from gripping his blade and going after her. Her anger hasn't died at all. It has swelled, grown, ripped through his body until he's not sure if he's angry too or if it's purely hers contaminating his blood. His hand searches for her sleeve and tightens, keeping her against his back before blood starts decorating the hallway.

"Did you lack to notice during that whole time that I was right beside her?" He asks bluntly.

The recruit crosses his arms, ignoring his direct superior in an act of childish stupidity.

"Everyone knows you're a thrall. You wouldn't listen." Green as grass, this recruit. Green as the sea in the morning. So green Cullen has the urge to water him frequently and turn him towards the sunlight. It is the only reason why the Captain doesn't follow Amell's example and shows the kid how to approach unconsciousness. A thrall? Do these people even know what…! "This is why we went ahead, Captain. You'll understand better once you're away from her. Just come with us. We can speak to the Knight-Commander and."

Cullen stops listening. The sheer nerve to point out his doubts, to demean his self-control when he has worked so hard to get it back up after his torture at the Tower, the way the boy carelessly tries to get Amell into a state where she won't feel, won't laugh, won't live, it all comes together and turns his mind into a bloody haze.

The boy doesn't notice. The other recruits do, if the frantic shaking motions behind their colleague's back, kicks to the back of his leg, even the addition of a not so subtle pinch when the first touches of violence don't get through that thick idiotic head are anything to judge by.

"I am going to spell it out for you." Cullen takes hold of the boy's armor and pulls him forward, close enough to count those little freckles if he was so inclined. He isn't but the way the other pales quickly tells him he's not only driving his point across but underlining and circling it for easy retrieval. "Diana Amell is an envoy from Ferelden. She is a Senior Enchanter and a Harrowed Mage. And she also is the Champion's cousin."

Candles start to light up behind those clueless eyes. He adds a little extra shake because comprehension's not enough to keep him from scaring the kid.

"So I wish for you to take this into consideration. If Hawke doesn't kill you for attacking his cousin for no reason bar doing her task." Which he would even if she was doing something incredibly wrong. That's Hawke in a nutshell. Murderous and very family-oriented, his threatened bits are proof of it. "I certainly will," the Captain continues slowly. "And whatever is left can be taken up with Knight-Commander Meredith and Greagoir from Ferelden. Unless you think either of the mentioned will believe you over me."

Little smile on his lips. The boy pales to a tone which would allow him to pass unnoticed in a pile of flour.

"Take Alric to the infirmary," he orders, pushing the boy back to his comrades, ignoring the blonde's comment of 'what for, man's just got his junk smashed' and, for once, he agrees. Alric is a loose weapon and if Meredith paid any attention to what he said, he'd be resting with several other lyrium damaged individuals.

Hawke will need to be warned to deal with the situation in the only way he can.

Alleyway murder.

Good thing it happens every two days or so or Cullen would have to be bothered to keep the Champion out of trouble.

"I'll have to return to Ferelden at this point."

Amell raises from the floor where she has spent the last moments kneeling, her arms covered in ink-stained vellums and an upset frown he'd find on a little girl being denied a sweet, not a grown woman who was almost skewered.

It occurs to him that the time with her is getting even shorter. This is the first sign and he should get moving before she runs back to Ferelden where she belongs.

It's why he throws hesitation into a deep pit and hugs her. Tightly, tightly until neither can breathe. And it's likely why she doesn't move nor fights against it. She's shaking now, of anger, rage and horror, he can't know for certain. Only that was close. It was so close and all the wolves are right above her shoulder, with their teeth against her throat and Cullen is terrified his hands won't be strong enough to keep those jaws open for long.

He pushes her back lightly, both hands on her arms while ignoring the dark spots covering his armor or her vellums which found their way to the floor all over again.

"When is your birthday?"

Tethras is right and he's done waiting. People grow old while he waits. People die while he twiddles his thumbs.

"Not sure," which sort of makes sense considering the Tower, damnit! He knows this. "You'll have to ask Leona. She will know."

"How about when you celebrate it?" He persists.

"I don't."

Obviously, she knows what he wants and is choosing not to cooperate. There is no other reason for this stupid conversation.

"Why not?"

"Why would I bother to. With whom?" Diana waves him off, lowering to grip her work all over again though the ink is now so deeply entrenched that nothing short of a small divinity will manage to decipher them.

"Your fellow mages? Leona? Hawke?" He is about to say Jowan but every time he comes to town Diana makes him suffer for approximately thirty minutes, blackmails him for five and gets gifts before the hour is done. There's no need for a specific day for celebrating. The Warden mage will be paying for that damned stupid mistake for years to come.

Amell signs loudly – huffs, it's definitely a huff – as she raises, hands resting on her hips. "You're being weird, Commander."

"Captain."

"Shut up." Her chest is poked with a spiky finger. "Why are you playing twenty questions with me?"

In truth, it was merely one. Thing was that she was avoiding a proper reply too much, which lead to the other nineteen. He just wants an excuse to give her something, to be kind, to help more than shake brutally a fool and make her happy.

"Why didn't you ever ask for anything from me? From Hawke?"

Her hand falls to her side, not a hint of a smile in her lips, not a trace of amusement anywhere in her expression and Amell, for once, is the serious mage he faced once or twice in all these years.

"Have you considered I'm happy this way?" Cullen finds that odd, especially considering she was just attacked but says nothing. It is rare to see Amell in this manner, to the point, one step below solemn and twice above solemn. "I don't want anything I can't have," she continues. "I don't need anything I don't already have and what I have is far more than I need."

"Is it?"

For one amazing moment, Diana looks at him and he reads it all. Everything about a small noble born in a cage and raised in a bigger one. Everything about nature – about hers, about her hopes and dreams which she doesn't take too far or too deep because it would be useless to attempt to climb a mountain when a guard waits right in the middle, ready to push her all the way back again. He reads what she is and where he fits in her world; half inside, half outside, bursting through those walls which limit her dreams with the same strength she pushed herself into his life so long before.

And so Cullen, for once, tells his brain to go screw itself and the horse it rode on and touches her chin. He has a grand total of a millisecond to notice the trace of a 'what in the maker's name, man?' glare coming right up before he presses his lips against hers.

The body against his is frozen. It might mean he shocked her into incoherency – _yes! _– or into anger – _armor is fireproof, yes, no?_ – but then it's his time to be shocked. The tips of her fingers touch his hair very gently, tiptoeing carefully until they find the back of his neck and rest quietly as she presses a little more against him. Lips against his, soft, sweet and gentle, everything she can be but rarely is.

He loves her. He really does. All of her, beauty and impassiveness, the way she'll laugh out of the blue when she's fighting, how she'll scowl at the thunderclouds hiding behind the windows of the Gallows, how she blows her hair out of the pain as she writes, the way she'll stare at him like this, serious and half amused as he is the fool in this, not her, never her.

Damn right, dwarf! He did it!

Amell's eyes blink slowly when he releases her, arms lightly around her waist, hers resting against his shoulders. A rush of pride pokes its head out of the mess of other hurricane-like feelings when he notices how dazed she is. A major strike in the plus column for the good guy.

Then she blinks again, more quickly and her lips open.

"I hope you know this pretty much makes you my bitch now."

_Sigh_. Really, Maker? Can he ever win?


End file.
